COLONIAL FACTS AND FICTIONS.
COLONIAL
FACTS AND FICTIONS
Humorous Sketches
By MARK KERSHAW
London
CHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADILLY
1886
[_The right of translation is reserved_]
CONTENTS.
PAGE
NORTH AUSTRALIA 1
QUEENSLAND 23
ADVENTURES WITH A BOOMERANG 64
DARLING DOWNS AND NEW ENGLAND 71
A NEWCASTLE LEGEND; OR, THE STORY OF THE DARK ROOM 82
THE ROYAL SOCIETY OF HULLOOMALOO 111
A WONDERFUL BATH 126
A CIRCULAR STORY 134
EARLY DAYS IN MELBOURNE; OR, CAPTAIN STRINGER
AND THE WATERS OF JOGGA WOGGA 147
TASMANIA 158
JOHNSON’S BOY 162
THE SMELTING WORKS 168
THE STORY OF A POST-BOX 179
NEW ZEALAND; OR, THE LAND OF THE MAORIS AND MOAS 192
THE RABBIT DIFFICULTY EXPLAINED 209
DICKEY ADAMS 223
ABOUT EARTHQUAKES 227
TRIP TO THE HOT LAKES 254
A SYSTEMATIC GUIDE-BOOK 284
THE JOURNEY TO NEW ZEALAND 286
COACHING IN NEW ZEALAND 288
THE HOT LAKES 290
THE COLD LAKES 292
SUNRISES AND SUNSETS 294
GENERAL ASPECT OF NATURE IN NEW ZEALAND 296
Colonial Facts and Fictions.
_NORTH AUSTRALIA._
Residents in foreign lands often think that it is an impertinence if a
passing stranger write about them. Those who have been for a long time
resident in a country seldom write a description of their experiences.
About many things they seem to have learnt how little they really
know, whilst to things of every-day occurrence they have become so
accustomed, that they do not think them worthy of description. The
persons who do write, and who delight to write about a place, are the
birds of passage. These persons know very little about their subject.
The very fact of only knowing a little about a place adds a charm to
an attempt at its description. If you know everything about it you are
inclined to write a series of facts, while if you only know a little,
there is room for the exercise of the imagination, and the production
becomes a combination of truths and untruths.
Reading a book of facts is like reading a dictionary. To make facts
palatable they must be diluted as you dilute whisky. Never having been
blessed with a capacity for gleaning facts, I have gradually come to
dislike them. Now and again facts have been unpleasantly thrust upon
my attention. Some facts come out of two bottles. You take an inch of
one and dilute it with two inches of the other. In many respects these
facts may be compared to the high and low pressure cylinders of a
marine engine. Other facts come out of tall, gilt-necked bottles. First
they pop, and then they fizzle. When you have imbibed a lot of these
facts, at first you feel jolly. Afterwards you feel unwell. The facts
I picked up at Port Darwin gave me a headache. When I came to P.D. (it
is an Australian custom to abbreviate), I did not know the difference
between a kangaroo’s tail and a gum tree. I do not think that I knew
very much more when I left.
The first thing that happened when we dropped anchor, was that the
anchor made a great splash in the water. This was followed by the
rattling of the chain, and a great deal of vibration. We had many
Chinamen on board, and as Australians dislike Chinamen, they do what
they can to keep them out of their country. At every port, wherever
we went, no matter whether the Chinamen were to land or not, they
had to pass a medical inspection. At some of the ports the doctors
also inspected the Europeans. ‘Let me look at your forehead, now your
chest--Um, no spots. That will do.’
The doctors hold their appointments from the Government; the Government
holds its appointment from the working man. The working man, the
horny-handed son of toil, bosses Australia. It is the ‘navy’ to whom
we must look for the stringency of the quarantine regulations of
Australia. At the present time it is reported in Australia that there
is cholera in China. That a ship has a clean bill of health, although
it may have come from a non-infected port, although China is as big as
Europe, although the ship has been nearly a month at sea, on arriving
at Sydney she must go in quarantine. You come from China, you have
Chinamen on board; we don’t want you, and therefore in the face of
reason and justice, we will do what we can to throw difficulties in
your way. But more of this by-and-bye. I am in a hurry to get past the
facts.
The water at Port Darwin is dirty green, and it is full of sharks. When
people bathe they do so in a big thing like a bird-cage, and the whales
and the sharks have to snuffle about outside. These animals are said
to regard this treatment as unusually rough. The town at Port Darwin
is called Palmerston, but the two names are pretty well synonymous.
The place is located on the level table-land like ground above the
low cliffs which fringe the bay. Some of the houses, including the
Residency, the Government offices, and a town-hall, are built of
stone. Nearly all the other houses are built of corrugated iron. The
internal arrangement of these latter buildings, which are lofty and
gable ended, is quite ecclesiastical. The streets are wide and at
right angles. The houses occur at intervals along the sides of these
streets. Some of the streets have lots of grass in them. I heard that
it was suggested to run up a tall tower in the town to see the Russian
fleet approaching. The Russophobia has run throughout the colonies,
and I shall have to refer to it very often. There are about two hundred
whites in Palmerston, six or eight hundred yellow Chinamen, and a few
aboriginal ‘blacks.’ The ‘whites’ have in addition to the town-hall,
several hotels, a public library, a race-course, a cricket ground, two
or three tennis-courts, rifle butts, and a dramatic corps. There are
some wells in the place, but a lot of water is collected in corrugated
iron water-tanks. Many of the residents have an idea that the water
is not good, and in order to keep down the _comma bacillus_ and other
microscopic organisms, it is advisable to dilute it with liquors
imported from Europe. The place is called Port Darwin, because it was
evolved out of nothing. The town was called Palmerston because many of
the early inhabitants had a habit of carrying a twig in their mouth.
One of the first things we did on landing was to make a pilgrimage to
the various hotels. Our object was to see the town, and to read the
latest papers. Many of these establishments would be creditable to any
town. All of them have mahogany bars, garnished with long white handles
to pump up beer. These handles made a great impression upon me--in
fact they were indirectly the cause of my suffering from nightmare.
That night I had a dream that my head rested on a mahogany counter,
and while in this uncomfortable position a young lady, who had got me
by the back hair, gave me a series of vigorous pulls. While this was
going on, my tormentor smiled and inquired whether I preferred stout or
bitter? I should have remonstrated, but my nose was too close to the
counter for me to speak. Do what I would, backwards and forwards went
my face across the slippery board, and the musical ‘stout or bitter,
sir,’ kept ringing in my ears. At length the movement changed, and
instead of having my nose burnished, it was being bumped. This I was
told was because I had not replied to the fair persecutor, who, as her
anger increased at my reticence, appeared to expand like a concertina.
As she grew bigger and bigger, I grew less and less. Suddenly there was
a fearful crash, and I awoke to find that Peter’s hat-box had fallen
from a rack upon my head. My head with the rolling of the ship had been
sliding up and down against the side of my berth, and I imagine that
the ‘bob-e-te-bob’ of the screw had been the ‘stout or bitter, sir.’
The blue-ribbon faction in Australia are at present trying to introduce
a bill for the abolition of barmaids in Australia. After my dream I
felt inclined to offer them my support.
While at the hotel, Peter and I were introduced to an aboriginal. He
was black in colour, tall in stature, and had a curly hair. They called
him Charlie. I was told that he had been caught wild at a place in
the bush about one hundred miles back. When he was first caught the
landlord said he was a perfect terror. If you only looked at him, he
would snap his jaws, and grind his teeth together like a couple of
millstones, and when his passion reached a climax, he would swivel
his eyes round and round in circles, snort like a bull, and jump up
and down vertically. Charlie was now quite tame, and if we would give
him a bob he would take us to an encampment. The opportunity was too
good to be lost, for we might now obtain some authentic information
about the aborigines. Before starting, Charlie asked for the shilling,
remarking that it should not be squandered in the pot-house, but be
kept in remembrance of this visit. We recommended him to forward it
to some jeweller in Melbourne, who would mount the coin as a brooch
for his wife. Charlie thanked us for the suggestion, and said that he
would consult with his family on the subject, and let us know their
decision in the evening. The road to the encampment led by the side of
the cricket ground, after which there was a sharp descent to the beach.
Not having the agility of the antelope, the latter part of the journey
was very trying. As Charlie bounded from crag to crag, I observed that
the cartilaginous divisional membrane between his nostrils had been
perforated. Peter, whose attention I had called to this unnatural
aperture, was quite shocked, and remarked that the attention of the
Government ought to be drawn to this custom.
The dwellings of the natives were made of a few bent sticks covered
with scraps of old bags, bits of bark, and butter tins. The average
height of one of these houses was about three feet. You had to enter
on all fours, and, when inside, you could enjoy a capital view of the
stars, or of the surrounding scenery, through the cracks and rents in
the roof and wall. As there was no room to turn round, you came out
backwards. The only inmate of the camp was Charlie’s wife--Mary--the
remainder of the tribe were away on a fishing excursion. At the time
of our arrival Mary was sitting in a hole she had scraped in the sand,
playing with a small fox terrier and six small pups.
As we approached, Mary rose. She was dressed in a black skirt with
six flounces, and had on her feet a pair of French boots. Her back,
like the backs of all the native beauties in these parts, was done
in ridges. These ridges are produced by making cuts with a piece of
flint or glass, and then rubbing in a quantity of sand or gritty
earth. The custom originated by an endeavour to imitate the corrugated
iron buildings of the Europeans. Charlie said that his wife derived
considerable comfort from the ridges. A rigid surface freed itself from
water better than a smooth one; also, as Mary often slept outside, the
ridges raised her from the damp earth. He had heard that this custom
had been highly approved of at the Healtheries.
‘Mary,’ said Charlie, addressing his wife, ‘allow me to introduce to
you a sample of the distinguished strangers from the _Leviathan_ now
anchored in our bay.’
‘Gentlemen,’ said he turning to us, ‘allow me to have the pleasure of
introducing you to my spouse.’ Mary gracefully inclined her head, and
blushed a whitish-grey. We bowed.
‘Be seated, gentlemen, be seated. Make yourselves at home,’ said
Charlie, pointing to the sand, and then, turning to his blushing wife,
suggested that refreshments would be acceptable.
While Mary was engaged at a decayed stump searching for the delicate
and creamy grub known to scientists as the _Vermiculites filiformis_
on which to regale her guests, Charles told us the following touching
story of her capture.
‘Well, it came about in this way,’ said Charlie, clearing his throat
and expectorating on the sand. ‘Mary and I had been married a month or
so when we thought we would take a run down to the seaside as a wind-up
for our honeymoon. For a week or so it was a blaze of sunshine, which,
gentlemen, is not unusual in these parts. All day long we wandered up
and down the beach, chasing little crabs and gathering up shells. At
night, tired with paddling in the water, we scratched a hole in the
sand, and slumbered. One morning I awoke and I found I was alone. I
didn’t think much of it at the time, for Mary had a habit of rising
early to catch a particular kind of worm for which she knew I had a
partiality. As time passed, I felt a little anxious, and looked about
me to see if it was possible to discover the direction which Mary
had followed. I tracked her to the beach, and then down to the edge
of the water, but as the tide had risen beyond this, her footsteps
had been obliterated. “Mary, Mary, my love, where are you?” I cried.
But no response beyond the lapping of the waves. That day I must
have travelled nigh on twenty miles to the Eastward, in the hopes of
discovering some sign of Mary’s whereabouts. At one time I thought she
had deceived me, and had fled with an unknown lover. I vowed vengeance.
That night I had to sleep in a hole by myself. Next day I travelled
well on forty miles to the Westward, when just as the sun was going
down, I came on tracks as thick as if there had been a mob of cattle
passing. The few minutes of daylight that remained, for you know, sir,
in these parts when the sun goes down, the light disappears as quickly
as when you blow out a lamp, I spent in examining the tracks to see if
I could find one corresponding to the hoof of my Mary. Just before
the light went out, I found the print of a toe which I thought might
have been hers. Beyond this there was another little round hole, then a
third one, and then a fourth one--one following the other in a crooked
line. After I had seen the series there was no doubt in my mind but
that I was on Mary’s track. But why was Mary travelling on one toe, and
in crooked lines? Had she been waltzing? Was she intoxicated? Had some
heathen lopped off her other toes? Who were her companions? While I was
thinking over this and a hundred other questions, it became quite dark,
and I sat down at the foot of a tree to wait for dawn. I had hardly
been there a couple of hours, when a low wailing sound came on the
breeze, which had just set in down a neighbouring gully. It was Mary’s
voice, and I was off in an instant. In twenty minutes or so I had
reached the side of my dusky bride, who, to my horror, I found lashed
to a tree. I quickly untied the bonds, and we wept upon each other’s
necks. Mary then told me how, when she had risen to capture the early
worm, she had suddenly been captured herself by a party of “whites,”
who, after putting a gag in her mouth, had carried her off to the place
where I had found her. As she was borne alone, she kept putting her
foot down to the sand, and thus the toe marks. Her captors were close
in the neighbourhood, and had gone in search of me. We must get off at
once. Our first move was to hurry towards the beach, where we should
be able to travel quickly. Arriving on the shore we almost immediately
ran upon a number of tracks similar to those I had seen yesterday. They
came _from_ the bush down to the edge of the water, and then appeared
to branch off in both directions along the shore line. Now this is what
I want you to mark,’ said Charlie, tapping the ashes out of his pipe on
the toe of his boot: ‘the tracks came down _from_ the bush. Not _up_ to
the bush. “It is impossible to travel on the shore,” said Mary to me;
“we had better take the opposite direction, and enter the bush where
the strangers came out.” Little thinking what was about to happen,
hand in hand we entered the bush. We had hardly passed the first
thicket, than there was a dreadful yell, and Mary and I found ourselves
enveloped in a net. The rest of the story was short: we were bound,
brought into Palmerston, exhibited for a week in a show, and finally
tamed.’
‘But how was it,’ said Peter, ‘that you made such a blunder as to think
you were going in the opposite direction to those who caught you?’
‘Well, it was just this way,’ replied Charlie: ‘those whites didn’t
act square, knowing if I came along the beach looking for Mary I was
not going to run into their arms; _they just walked backwards from the
shore up to where they had set their darned net_. The blacks are up
to this backward trick now, so the new dodge is to catch their wives
first, and tie them up to a tree as bait to catch their husbands. That
is why they call the black women “gins.”’
When we returned to the hotel, we asked the landlord if he had ever
heard the story of Charlie’s capture. He looked at us for a minute,
and then went off in roars. ‘Why,’ said he, ‘Charlie tells that same
old lie to everyone as comes. How much did you give him for the
entertainment?’
That night Peter and I accepted an invitation to dine at a house where
there was a collection of pet animals very closely resembling a happy
family. I can only describe those which made some impression on me.
One animal was a great slate-coloured bird like a stork. Usually it
contented itself with standing stock still, posing as a bronze image.
When you advanced to admire the beautiful workmanship, it would give
a little ‘sold again’ sort of wink, and walk away. Another remarkable
creation was a parrot who was always edging along sideways towards
you, as if desirous of seeing how near you would allow it to put its
eye to yours. I suggested that it should be provided with a cage. The
most remarkable animal of all was a male sheep. This had once been a
little lamb skipping about with a blue ribbon round its neck. Since
its early days it had grown to the size of a young ox, and therefore,
instead of wandering about the house, it had been placed together with
other sheep in a paddock inside. In going home that night we had to
cross this paddock. As it was close on midnight my companions said
that danger need not be apprehended, the sheep would certainly be
sleeping. I once thought of turning my attention to sheep-farming, but
after my experiences on that memorable evening I think that all sheep
ought to be kept in cages, or at least wear muzzles. In was 12 p.m.
on the 4th of July. When in future years Americans see me rejoicing
on the glorious 4th, they need not embrace me as a faithful citizen.
My thanksgivings will be to commemorate deliverance from the jaws of
a ferocious sheep. The name of this sheep is Billy. I first saw Billy
standing in the moonlight. The moment my companions saw him, there was
a general stampede. I am thankful to state that I kept well in the van.
As to what occurred during the next ten minutes I can only speak from
memory. There was no time allowed for taking notes. For two or three
minutes or so, I am told that I was seen passing very rapidly backwards
and forwards over and through some wire fencing. During this time I can
remember a snorting and rustling going on at the distance of about two
feet from my coat-tails. Each time that I slipped between the wires I
could feel the warm breath of my pursuer near my body. Once or twice I
heard some vicious, blood-curdling snaps. At last there was a pause.
I was on one side of the railings and Billy was on the other. About
two feet away from us was an open gate, which at once explained the
continued proximity of Billy’s nose to my coat-tails. After grinding
his jaws, he snuffed defiantly, threw his head in the air, and marched
away. Billy had certainly cleared the field. It took us fully ten
minutes to collect together, and then ten minutes more to clear our
pockets and shoes of dirt and gravel. The whole thing had been like a
thunderstorm. So much for the innocence and docility of sheep. I shall
say more about Australian sheep in another chapter.
Next day a nice-looking fellow, called Pater, invited us to join a
shooting-party. This would give me an opportunity of seeing something
of the bush, so I embraced the offer. As Billy occupied the paddock,
it was necessary to make a detour, and we were in consequence rather
late for breakfast. We started in a buggy. The euphonious word ‘buggy’
is applied to a vehicle not unlike a waggonette. The place we went
to was called ‘The Lagoons.’ I believe they were the lagoons of some
particular person, but I forget his name. It was a long drive of
perhaps ten or twelve miles, through tolerably open woods, made up of
gum trees and screw palms. The gum trees grew anywhere and anyhow, but
the screw palms grew with a corkscrew-like arrangement of their leaves,
and only in places where there is water. If everything could arrive
at a helical condition by imbibing water, what a time the sailors
would have! Our road lay along a proposed railway track, and near an
existing telegraph line. The railway line will lead to the mining
districts, about 150 miles away. The telegraph line leads to Adelaide,
nearly 2,000 miles distant. In position it is something like a line of
longitude. We thought of following the line of telegraph to Adelaide,
but as we heard that the journey usually took two years, our friends
persuaded us to give up the notion.
Here and there we saw a lot of ant-hills. These ants have white bodies
and look like little grubs. I forget the colour of their heads. Most
ants are very active, and appear to be continually dodging about in a
variety of directions. These ants are very slow in their movements.
If you had not been told that they were ants, you would be inclined
to call them cheese-maggots. To all appearance they are without any
particular points, and as ants they are certainly below the average.
The only thing which makes North Australian ants conspicuous is their
work. In the woods their business appears to be carting dirt. Five or
six ants club together, and having selected a site, they commence to
cart dirt, and they continue carting dirt until they die. Then their
children cart dirt. Finally the grandchildren cart dirt. And so carting
dirt is continued from generation to generation, until at last carting
dirt has become a family mania. All this dirt is piled up to make a
mound like a small volcano or a meat-cover. The meat-covers that I
saw would hold two or three fair-sized oxen. Of how long it takes to
make a meat-cover I am unable to give any exact information, but if I
had resided at Port Darwin for a few thousand years I might possibly
have obtained some exact date. For argument’s sake, if we suppose that
twenty ants, and I never saw more than twenty together in one volcano,
carry a pound of dirt per annum, and a given monument weighs two tons,
then to build this particular monument it must have taken at least
4,480 years. If, however, just for variety we assume, that a particular
meat-cover weighed forty tons, then, with the other assumptions, a
meat-cover must have taken 90,000 years to build. Look at the question
as we will, the Port Darwin ants possess a history that will vie with
that of ancient Egypt.
In one or two places the ants had given a character to the scenery.
Some of them, instead of following the meat-cover plan of construction,
have built slab-like structures. A group of these erections looked like
a graveyard, where the form and position of the monuments had been
regulated by legislation. These ants were evidently of a melancholic
turn of mind. From careful meteorological observations, carried on
during a long series of years, it would appear that they had determined
the direction of the prevailing winds, and had placed these slabs end
on to this direction. These were magnetical ants, and might possibly be
able to correct a compass.
What all these ants had in their heads when they first started these
structures, no one has yet discovered. Perhaps, having travelled over
the whole of the Australian continent, they had become disgusted at its
flatness, and therefore had endeavoured to alleviate the monotony by
building up towns. Maybe they feared a flood.
These are the country ants. The town ants, having during the last
few years discovered that their structures form a good cement for
tennis-courts and other purposes, have adopted different tactics.
Instead of having their houses bored into, their great delight is
to bore into the houses of other people. They approach a house by
subterranean covered ways. Reaching a post, they bore up it from the
bottom to the top, only finishing when they have left a shell of paint.
Then they take a second post. Next they may attack a door. This they
eat out until it is as hollow as a drum. After this they attack the
stationary furniture, approaching everything by covered passages.
Somehow they manage to come through the floor just beneath the centre
of the leg of the table, or whatever it is they intend to devour. A
sheet of lead is no obstruction. I have seen sheets of lead eaten
away as if they had been so many pieces of woollen cloth. They began
with dirt, next they took to wood, and now they eat metal. They are
herbiferous, carniverous, metaliverous, dirtiferous, and all the other
‘iverouses’ that have yet been discovered.
Not long ago a bank manager had to write to his directors that he
regretted to inform them that there was a deficiency in his treasury.
A large quantity of bullion had been devoured by white ants. The reply
came by wire, ‘File their teeth.’
The first bird that was shot was a great big white cockatoo. All the
other cockatoos, that were with the one we shot, fled away. This
happened at a small shanty standing near the edge of a lagoon. I should
have shot the cockatoo myself, but it looked too much like slaughtering
a domestic fowl. Cockatoos were good to eat, they make excellent pies,
and I must shoot every one I saw; but--and here my companions were very
impressive--be careful and not get ‘bushed.’
To get ‘bushed’ means to get lost. A direction was pointed out to me
where I might meet with some geese. Being in a strange land, surrounded
with strange sights, in the midst of woods which, for aught I know,
might be tenanted by blacks and bushrangers, I was a little nervous.
This was heightened by the caution I had received about getting
‘bushed.’ It wouldn’t do to show the white feather, so waving an adieu
to my companions, I put my gun on my shoulder, and started into a cane
brake which skirted the side of the lagoon. It was simply horrible; you
could not see where you were going to, or where you had come from. At
every step your feet plopped into water; now and then you received a
slap across the face from an unusually elastic reed that had slipped
past your gun barrel. Here and there the bottom became so swampy that
I felt I might be bogged. This led to rushing and jumping between bits
of hard ground and tussocks of grass. Once or twice I found that I
had become impaled by the nostril on a cane that had been sticking out
horizontally. To unthread myself I had to walk backwards. Perhaps this
is the way in which the blacks get their noses bored. After ten minutes
or so of earthly purgatory, I had advanced perhaps fifty yards. Not
having any intention of training for a bushranger, not even if I could
have shot all the cockatoos and geese in Australia, I picked out a dry
looking spot, and sat down upon a bundle of reeds. While mopping the
perspiration off my face, looking at my bird-cage like surrounding,
and, I may add, reflecting on my folly, I heard a loud crackling in
the canes. It was evident that some big brute was approaching. There
are alligators in North Australia, and perhaps this was one of them on
his way to get a drink. I would have shouted to my companions, but by
this time I knew that they were far away. Then my tongue seemed to be
paralyzed and my hair was bristling. Suddenly the noise ceased. The
brute had stopped, and I pictured it with its nose upon the ground
snuffing at my tracks. At that moment I would have given the whole of
Far Cathay, had it been mine, for a moderate-sized tree. The only trees
were in the direction from which my pursuer was approaching. Suddenly
the crashing recommenced. The animal had snuffed me out, and was coming
on in bounds. Another crash, and the monarch of the swamp stood before
me. It wasn’t an alligator, but a hairy, snipe-faced animal with
long thin legs and an elegant waist. It might have been a dingo or a
kangaroo. Anyhow, as it did not look very ferocious, I would try and
capture it alive. For some minutes we looked at each other. As it was
clear that it did not intend to open the conversation, and there was no
one near to give us a proper introduction, I put on an idiotic smile,
and holding out my hand said, ‘Poor doggy--poor ’ittle doggy’--‘poor
’ittle doggy woggy.’ The last phrase seemed to fetch it, for it waggled
its tail, but when I rose to make an advance it put its nose in the
air, gave a sniff, turned round, and bounded off. Later on, I found
that the animal was a Scotch deer-hound, belonging to a party who had
come out to the shanty for a picnic, arriving just after I had entered
the cane brake.
When I got out of the cane brake I registered a vow never to enter
another cane brake while in Australia. The next place where I found
myself was in some tolerably open woods. Here I could see what was
coming, and if anything large appeared there were lots of friendly
trees. The first thing I fell in with were a lot of parrots. These were
of all sizes, shapes, and colours. From the manner in which they were
guffawing and screeching at each other, they appeared to have assembled
for an important debate. If each of them had been provided with a
little tin pot and a chain, the resemblance of my surroundings would
have been very like the parrot-house in the Zoo. Having been told that
cockatoos were game, I picked out what looked like a good-looking bird
of the cockatoo order, and dropped him as dead as a door nail. When I
picked it up, instead of being a cockatoo, to my great astonishment,
it turned out to be some kind of pink parrot. The parrots that had not
been shot, instead of flying away as the cockatoos had done, surrounded
me and my prize, and commenced a pandemonium of screeches that it will
take long to forget. Most of them sat in the trees, but others flew
over my head. What they said I could not well make out, but a lot of
it sounded like ‘Oh! you blackguard,’ ‘you blackguard.’ ‘Who shot poor
Polly?’ The confusion was only paralleled by that which overwhelmed
Baalam. But not being in a mood to be bullied by a parcel of parrots,
I picked up my game and marched towards the camp. All the way I was
accompanied by a flock of flapping pollies. Some went in front, some
came along on my flanks, while some were behind me bringing up the
rear--they were like mosquitoes. Every one of them was yelling and
squalling fit to break their throats. A pretty lot of companions. Now
and then, one bolder than the rest, would almost touch my head. At
one time I felt inclined to bury my game. The next moment I thought I
would shoot a few of the tormentors. This, however, might only lead to
greater trouble. It was certain I could not go into camp with a troop
of yelling parrots after me, but how was I to get rid of them? As we
went on they appeared to increase in numbers, and their yelling became
louder and louder. I now began to regret that I had shot a pink parrot.
When within a hundred yards or so of the shanty, I saw an old gentleman
with a lady and two or three youngsters seated round a table-cloth.
To complete the party there was my snipe-nosed friend of the cane
brake, looking out for the tail ends of ham sandwiches. Here a bright
thought struck me. If I were to drop my game near to the picnickers,
my infuriated companions might perhaps get mixed, as to who had been
the murderer. It worked beautifully. Holding the parrot behind my
back, I walked up to within ten or twelve yards of the unsuspecting
pleasure party, and, without stopping, dropped Polly and walked along.
What happened after my absence I did not stop to see; all that I knew
is that when I returned the picnickers had departed. The pink parrot
had also gone. Shortly after this I blundered on a second lagoon,
which was fringed with tall grass. Before me there was a flock of
geese. On the opposite side of the lagoon, and evidently stalking the
geese, there were two of my companions up to their arm-pits in water.
I felt extremely sorry for my companions, for the geese, on seeing me,
immediately rose, and I shot one of them. From the gesticulations of my
companions I could see that they were annoyed, so I quickly retreated,
congratulating myself at being out of gun-shot. After this I met with
a multitude of adventures. The greatest surprise, however, was on my
way back to the shanty, where we were to meet for lunch. That I met
with a wild beast, there is no doubt. It passed in front of me at a
distance of about six feet when I first saw it; its head was in the
bushes, and it appeared to be about as long as my gun. It was like a
log of wood moving end on. There was no crackling this time. It simply
slid along like a panorama, passing out of sight into a clump of screw
pines. For a moment I was rooted to the spot; my heart palpitated, and
my hair bristled. What was the phenomenon? Could it be anything less
than an alligator? If it was a baby alligator, where were papa and
mamma? Should I go on, or should I turn round and run? The way I did
go was backwards and sideways, the whole time pointing my gun at the
clump of screw pines. Each time that a leaf rustled or I saw a crooked
stump, I prepared for the final struggle. When I got back my companions
told me it was only an iguana, and I ought to have shot it. They made
first-rate curry. I spent the afternoon in keeping camp, watering
the horses, and washing up the plates. While doing this, I saw Pater
stalking some geese up to his neck in water, at the opposite side of
the lagoon to where we were encamped. He shot one of them, and then
putting his gun ashore swam about a quarter of a mile out amongst a lot
of water-lilies to retrieve the game. Until I saw him safe ashore I was
quite concerned about his safety. To be a successful sportsman about
Port Darwin you ought to be about eight or nine feet long, and not mind
wading.
Everything having been nicely arranged about the camp, I took the
cushions out of the buggy, and prepared myself for a siesta. Then I
dozed. Just as I had reached the middle of an interesting dream, I
was awakened by crackling and a cloud of smoke. Here was a pretty go.
The bush was on fire, and within half a mile wild flames were leaping
up higher than church steeples. This was worse than alligators. The
horses might be saved by turning them free, but the buggy,--well, the
buggy might be saved if it was of cast-iron. To get a better view of
the conflagration, I climbed on the roof of the shanty. The wind was
blowing straight at me, and, at every gust, the flames would seethe
along fifty yards nearer. Nearer and nearer came the flames. Hotter and
hotter grew the gusts of air, thicker and thicker came the clouds of
smoke and smut, louder and louder grew the roaring. Oh! what an ass I
had been to venture into the Australian bush! Just as I was setting
the horses free, Pater turned up and asked me what I was about. ‘The
fire,’ said I. And then he laughed. ‘Why, we set it going ourselves. It
can’t possibly cross that patch of green stuff.’
This was the end of my first experience in the bush. We were all of us
awfully tired when we got back, and slept like tops.
Port Darwin is by no means a bad place. For many years North Australia
was a white-elephant country, but now it is a land of promise. It is a
sort of colony within a colony, being attached to South Australia by
the same sort of bonds that South Australia is attached to England. At
present Port Darwin is the terminus of the cables from Europe, and the
land lines are the Australian colonies. Before a great many years it
hopes, by being the terminus of a transcontinental railway, to become
a San Francisco or New York. When this is made, the journey to and
from the colonies will be considerably shortened; six hundred miles
of line now run northwards from Adelaide, and very shortly there will
be 150 miles of line southwards from Port Darwin. This latter line
will open up a number of valuable mining districts, where gold, copper
and tin are already being worked. In addition to mining industries,
North Australia offers a good field for the squatter and planter. The
squatters, with herds of horned cattle, have already been successful.
The planters have, however, thus far failed. When they had good land
they wanted capital, and, where they had capital, they were unfortunate
in their selection of land. On the coast there are the pearl shell
fisheries.
By-and-bye we shall hear that Port Darwin has become as famous as the
distinguished savant who gave to it its name. Port Darwin, Good luck!
and good-bye.
_QUEENSLAND._
In my last letter I told you about our experiences at Port Darwin. It
took us exactly three days to get over those experiences. Those who
didn’t sleep, sat on cane chairs gazing at the Gulf of Carpentaria,
thinking of their past folly, and speculating when the next flying
fish would rise. There is not much excitement in tropical seas. You
seldom if ever see a ship, and birds, if there are any, are too languid
to take exercise. All is dead save the movement of the waters, and
the fluttering of flying fish. We had related all our stories, and it
was too hot to invent new ones. After about two hours of silence in
the afternoon of the second day, the lively Peter said he would bet a
new hat that we could not find in Dod’s atlas, islands corresponding
to all the days of the week. I forgot to tell you that one of Dod’s
chief amusements was to mark out his route in a big atlas which he
had brought with him. Peter’s proposal was accepted, and I am sorry
to record the fact that I lost the hat. I am sure that I didn’t lose
because the islands do not exist, but because Dod’s atlas was not
big enough. It did not even mark the great Thursday Island, which we
were approaching. If there had only been a detailed map of the north
end of Australia, I think I should have won. Tuesday, Wednesday, and
Friday Islands exist near Thursday Island, and the only island about
which I should have been doubtful, would have been a Sunday island. I
don’t think the people who live near the land’s end of the Australian
continent could harmonize with an island named after the seventh day. I
wonder if Peter looked at the atlas before he made the bet?
Thursday Island is one out of a set of hilly islands forming outliers
off the end of Cape York. From a balloon they ought to look like the
commencement of a series of stepping stones, reaching from Australia
towards New Guinea. If the series were ever complete, the greater
part of it has been washed away, and all that remains is the southern
end of the line. As we steamed in between these islands, we passed at
the distance of about one hundred yards, a steamer coming out. The
waving of handkerchiefs was immense. A lady passenger not only waved
her handkerchief, but she fairly jumped with excitement, and beckoned
to us as if she wanted us all to jump overboard, and swim after her.
It was clear she recognised somebody, but, who that somebody was we
never discovered. For the next week we used to address our skipper as
‘the sly dawg who flirted with the lady on the _Greyhound_.’ It has
often astonished me how bold ladies become, and gentlemen also, when
there is some sort of a barrier between them. When a train is leaving
a platform, respectable ladies can sometimes hardly repress a smile at
respectable gentlemen, but, while the train is standing at the station,
both the ladies and the gentlemen are as solemn as petrifactions.
The handful of people at Thursday Island had, like the inhabitants of
all the other ports on the Australian coast, made preparations against
sudden invasion. Practice was going on at a rifle butt, the lights
which guide the ships had been extinguished for many nights, and the
hulks holding coals and other stores by withdrawing certain plugs could
at a moment’s notice be scuttled. One old lady fearing that on the
approach of the Russians, she might have to take refuge in the bush,
kept her pockets filled with fishing lines and hooks. At least she
would have the means of supplying the camp with fish.
On my second visit to Thursday Island, which was in company with
Captain Green, a skipper who is as lively, energetic, and entertaining
as any skipper I ever travelled with, I visited a number of the
neighbouring islands where we climbed trees to obtain enormous bean
pods, gathered orchids, and visited shelling stations.
The bays and islets of Thursday Island and its neighbourhood certainly
form pictures above the average of Australian scenery. Near the beach
are groves of mangrove, while miles up there are rocky cliffs and
patches of withered herbage. It is said that nothing of any value can
be induced to grow on Thursday Island, while on the volcanic islands,
twenty miles or so to the northward, yams and other vegetables thrive
magnificently. One great difficulty which has to be contended with is
the want of water, the supply necessary for household purposes being
chiefly dependent on what is caught from the roofs. As the quantity
of rain which falls is but little more than that which falls in the
great Sahara, the price of washing may be imagined. After three days in
Thursday Island you feel that you have lived long enough to start upon
your autobiography. After a week you feel that you haven’t the energy
for such an undertaking, and you leave the task for posterity.
From sidewalks which are over the tops of naturally formed sand dunes,
it may be inferred that there is no Department of Public Works in
Thursday Island. There is a nice sandy walk in any direction you like
to take. Now and then you may be stopped by a small mountain of old
bottles and meat tins.
The persons who live here are of various nationalities. I saw British,
Blacks, Cingalese, Japanese, and Kanakas. There were also a few
residents from Damascus, and a Polish emigrant from Siberia. The chief
occupation is diving for pearl shells. This is done from small boats
with diving dresses. The divers hold a monopoly of their business. They
get from £3 to £3 10s. for 100 shells, and it takes 8 to 900 shells to
make a ton, which is worth from £130 to £150. White men provide the
capital for this business, but it is the dark-skinned people who do the
actual diving. If a white man insists on diving, the probability is
that an accident occurs. The poor fellow’s signals were not understood,
and he dies for want of air. The divers take as their perquisite all
the pearls they find, which they trade off to jewellers or at grog
shops. The pearls ought properly to go to the owners of the boats. At
the end of a year a diver, after having received all his food which
he insists shall be of the best description, and accompanied with the
necessary sauces, finds that he has from £300 to £500. Then comes the
‘knocking down’ and a general debauch, at which time those persons not
desirous of being converted into lead mines or sieves, retire to their
dwelling.
Now there is a small church at Thursday Island, and the manners of the
cosmopolitans it is hoped may be softened. How they will get on at
their christenings without water, is a problem yet to be solved.
Thursday Island is a young place, but still it has its stories. The
stories chiefly relate to enormous pearls and the adventures of divers.
I was particularly struck with one story I heard, partly because I had
reason to believe it to be true, and partly because the scenes referred
to were indicated by the narrator as the story went on. It was called:
Ah Foo, the Gardener of Thursday Island.
Pearls and pearl shells are now getting scarce at and about Thursday
Island, began the narrator. In early days pearls were common enough
to be had for the asking. There are some of my mates here that have
had pearls given to them by the handful. They would get a few set in
rings for their sweethearts, the balance they would pass on to their
friends. The first who discovered this El Dorado was an Israelite from
Vienna. He came and bought up all he could, and then he went, and we
have never heard of him since. After the first Oriental there came a
second Oriental. This was a Chinaman. He called himself Ah Foo, and
told us that his home was in Shantung or Shanshi. I forget which. In
big colonial towns Chinamen are usually washermen. In the suburbs,
and in the country, they are gardeners. About half Australia depends
upon Chinamen for their vegetable diet. As Chinamen supply it, the
profession of a gardener has come to be regarded as an occupation by no
means comparable with true manhood.
You point to the only fertile spot in a barren burnt up township, and
before you can ask what it is, you are told that it is one of those
gardens made by Chinamen. They are always making gardens. With the
manure they use they will poison some of us yet. Would you believe it,
they only use night soil. They are such a dirty lot.
This is all the thanks a Chinaman gets for making a pleasant little
green oasis and feeding the whites on cabbages and peas. To be a
gardener is looked upon as a Chinaman’s profession. In fact pottering
about with a watering pot, and hawking vegetables, is the greatest
height to which a Chinaman’s soul is supposed to rise.
Ah Foo, when he came to Thursday Island, started a garden. How things
were to be induced to grow, nobody could conceive. That was the
Chinaman’s business. If there is a second Aden in the world, it must be
remembered that it is well represented by Thursday Island. It seldom
rains at Thursday Island, but yet Ah Foo kept digging away at his
ground, expecting that some day or other it might produce a crop, and
the harvest he would get, for cabbages were worth five shillings each,
would well repay him for his labours. But weeks passed, and no rain
came, and the Chinaman for a month or so paused in his labours. From
time to time during this period of melancholy, he would descend from
his hut up the gully, and take a seat upon a bench within the little
Public.
‘Well, John, and how’s the garden?’ the landlord would ask.
‘Me loose plenty money. No catchee lain, water melons and cabbages no
makee glow,’ replied John;--and he looked sad enough for the first
mourner at a funeral. Several of the residents on Thursday Island, who
had travelled, knew that Chinamen succeeded in growing vegetables in
places where even a Mormon would fail.
‘Just let John alone, we’ll have our cabbages yet. Why Chinamen can
raise peas out of a bed of salt in a baker’s oven.’ So John was
encouraged by a smile and toleration. Many of the older hands on the
island hadn’t tasted fresh vegetable for three years, and they regarded
John’s efforts with great interest. Now and then a resident who had
taken an evening stroll past Ah Foo’s patch, would, whilst taking his
tot of square face, casually refer to what he had observed. ‘That
garden up there ain’t doing much,’ one would remark. ‘Exactly as I was
saying to Smith, here,’ was the reply. ‘Plenty of stones and dirt; I
reckon he’s waiting for the rain.’ By-and-bye John’s garden became a
joke--in fact a sort of bye word for a bad spec. Still John pegged
along. Now and then he could be seen toiling up the hill with two
baskets filled with sea weed suspended at the end of a stick. This was
manure for the garden.
Six months passed and still there had not been a sprinkle, and John
had never produced a single vegetable. Thursday Island was as brown as
a baked apple. ‘Curious folks these Chinee,’ said the old resident,
‘always industrious. Why if we had their perseverance we’d been
millionaires by this time.’
People next began to speculate as to what would be the price of John’s
cabbages when they did grow.
‘I wonder how he lives? Why it’s half a year since Ah Foo came, and
he hasn’t sold a copper’s worth of stuff as yet. I suppose the other
Chinamen help him along.’ We heard that they are terribly clannish in
their country. In the midst of all the speculations as to the source
of Ah Foo’s income, there was a clap of thunder, and the rain fell in
buckets’ full. Everybody looked up towards the Chinaman’s cabin as if
they expected to see cabbages rising like the magic mango.