PLAGUES AND PLEASURES OF THE BUSH
Emus are still plentiful in the downs country, and occasionally we used
to come across a straggler that had wandered on to the timbered country
of our run. Quite a young one appeared once, in a little open plain
on the opposite side of the lagoon from the house. With the help of
several blacks, after a tremendous chase, we ran it down, and brought
it home intending to tame it.
It was only about two feet high, and could not have been more than six
weeks old; but the way it ran before we caught it made us think it
must be tired, so we shut it up in a stable about twenty feet square.
The instant that we put it down it began to run round and round the
stable as hard as it could go. My brother suggested that this might be
nervousness, and that perhaps it did not like strangers looking at it.
So we left it for an hour quite alone. When we came back it was running
round harder than ever, with its mouth open and its wings hanging down.
Frank declared that young emus always acted like that when they were
having a good time, but its appearance was anything but joyful. Three
hours after it was still running round, and it never stopped till it
fell down dead four hours and a half after we first shut it up, during
which time I am certain it must have travelled over forty miles.
The speed and the endurance possessed by a full-grown emu are perfectly
incredible to anyone who has not tried the experiment of running one
down. The only way is to make a dash at them, and try and come up
with them in the first spurt, for if they once get their second wind,
very few horses will ever catch them. They straggle along in the most
ungainly fashion, looking all the time as if they were dead-beat, and
were going to drop with exhaustion, but the way in which they get over
the ground is quite astonishing. I once rode a very good horse five
miles on end across the downs after an emu as hard as we could go,
but no efforts could diminish the distance between us. The bird kept
about ten yards in front of me the whole way, and finally escaped into
a patch of scrub. Their bones contain the celebrated oil very much in
favour among the blacks for curing swollen joints and sprained sinews.
None but full-grown men, whose frames are thoroughly set, ever use it,
for they declare that it has the effect of softening anyone’s bones
who has not arrived at maturity. The penetrating qualities of the oil
are certainly very remarkable, for if it is placed in a glass bottle a
portion of it will always sweat through the glass and escape.
The birds themselves are easily tamed if they are caught quite young.
In their wild state they are mischievous where there is much fencing
about, as they seem to take a delight in breaking down the wires.
Many people, whose ideas of Australia are chiefly gathered from
representations of the traditional Bush-ranger in the illustrated
periodicals, imagine that the inhabitants of the country are invariably
arrayed in enormous long boots half way up their thighs, to protect
them from the attacks of snakes and other deadly reptiles. There never
was a greater delusion. The whole time that I was in the Bush I never
in my life saw a man with long boots on, unless he was a very recent
arrival in the country. The fact is that long boots in a country where
you have often to camp out are the greatest mistake. In cold weather
you cannot pull them off, and in wet weather if you pull them off you
can never get them on again. As for taking the slightest precaution to
guard against being bitten by a snake, I never knew anyone who did it
after the first week in the Bush. It is impossible to live in a state
of chronic apprehension. The feeling is bound to wear off, and, after
riding about the Bush for some time, the most nervous man discovers
that snakes, as a rule, are quite as anxious to avoid a _rencontre_ as
he is himself, and very soon he ceases to trouble his head about them
until he happens to see one.
In some localities, as, for instance, the canefields of Mackay, or
the reedbeds on the Murray River, snakes are so plentiful that it is
necessary to be extremely cautious. But generally, all over the Bush,
especially in Queensland, it is curious how seldom one stumbles upon
one. In Queensland there are five deadly kinds, the black snake, the
brown snake, the tiger snake, the diamond snake, and the death-adder.
Of these the black and the brown are the commonest; the latter
sometimes reaching a length of eight or nine feet. The bite of any of
these varieties is sufficient to cause death within a few hours, unless
the proper remedies are applied at once, but by far the worst is the
death-adder. It has this peculiarity, that, unlike all other snakes,
it does not attempt to move out of anyone’s way, but lies quite still
until it is touched, when it fastens with a spring upon its victim.
Its bite is by far the most deadly of all Australian snakes, and, with
the exception of Underwood’s celebrated performance, I never knew a
well-authenticated instance of recovery from it.
Deaths from snake-bite are not uncommon, especially among the Kanakas
who work in the canefields. The best known remedies are injection of
ammonia, and large quantities of brandy taken internally.
Undoubtedly the man Underwood, above alluded to, was the possessor of
a perfectly efficacious antidote to the bite of any Australian snake.
He gave a series of performances, in which he used to allow the most
deadly snakes to bite him, afterwards applying some remedy, the nature
of which was known only to himself. There can be no sort of doubt that
the reptiles which he employed were perfectly healthy, and in full
possession of their poisonous faculties.
The second bite of any snake is always less poisonous than the first,
as some time is required to secrete a full supply of the venom which
has been partially exhausted in the first bite. But dogs and rabbits
which were bitten immediately after Underwood by the same snakes died
very shortly, which conclusively proves the genuine nature of his
experiments. Indeed, the most convincing proof of all was the death of
the unfortunate man himself. Having one day allowed a snake to bite
him, while he was himself under the influence of liquor, he forgot
where to find his own antidote, and died from the effects of the bite.
He demanded £10,000 from the Victorian Government as the price of his
discovery, which they refused to pay, so his secret perished with him.
Almost as deadly in its effects as any snake, and far more dangerous
in its habits, is a small black spider, about the size of a large pea,
with a brilliant crimson mark on its back. It lives mostly in old
timber, but frequently it takes up its abode in an inhabited house,
and, far from having any fear of man, it does not wait to be provoked
before attacking him. Its bite, unlike that of a snake, causes the
most intense agony, and the after effects are very bad. Death is by
no means an uncommon result, but more frequently the victim becomes
hopelessly insane, or paralysed. I killed several of them at odd times
in my room, and once, while on the diggings, I was unfortunate enough
to get a bite from one. I was camped in front of the fire, and, just
as it got light, I sat up and kicked the blanket off. As I did so I
felt a sharp pain in the calf of my leg, and looking down I saw one of
these little black devils on it. I killed it instantly, and reaching
out my hand for a knife, I took up the piece of my leg where the bite
was, between the finger and thumb of my left hand, and cut it clean
out. I had always some ammonia with me, and I rubbed a quantity of
that in. Certainly not more than ten seconds elapsed between the time
I was bitten and when I cut the piece out. But my leg got very bad.
The pain for days afterwards was intense, and after that, the whole
leg swelled and became soft like dough. The place itself turned into a
running sore, about an inch deep, which did not heal for four months
afterwards. Centipedes and scorpions are common enough, and the bite of
either of them is painful, but not dangerous to anyone who is in a good
state of health.
The real pests of the Bush are flies. Mosquitoes and sandflies are bad
enough, but after a time one gets used to them, and, after all, they
do not come out much except at night, and are very local annoyances,
some places being almost entirely free from them. But I defy the most
philosophical of men to get used to flies. On the coast they are only
troublesome for a few months in the year, during the autumn. But in
the interior they are always bad, and really sometimes they make life
almost intolerable. In the western country no one ever rides about in
fly-time without wearing a veil. As I write now I can almost fancy I
am in the middle of them again. One falls into the ink, crawls out
again nearly drowned, tumbles with a flop on to the paper on which I
am writing, and, rolling over on to its back, whirls round and round
in a death-flurry, leaving an archipelago of ink-blots on the paper.
A savage dip of the pen into the inkpot, the result of suppressed
irritation, harpoons the corpse of another one, and discloses the
interesting fact that the bottom of the inkpot is full of dead flies
that have fallen in and never got out again. Four in each eye, three
inside my shirt, two in each nostril, one glued firmly to my under lip,
entirely unmoved by the language that is flying past it, thousands
on my hands and arms, and several crawling pensively over the most
sensitive portion of my ear,--oh! what on earth do they want? I would
give them anything to eat or drink if they seemed to want it, but they
do not. They simply come for the fun of crawling about, like people
go to look at the wicket at a cricket-match between the innings,
from conceited curiosity. Far from being a plague to which one grows
accustomed, the annoyance of flies is one which gets worse and worse
the longer that one has to endure it. It is a kind of cumulative
irritant, which has the effect of making a man feel more entirely
wicked than anything else in the world. Millions of flies are bad
enough, but I am not at all sure that one fly which you cannot kill is
not worse. The combined attack of a large number produces a sensation
of general discomfort and irritation which is very hard to bear, but
the deeper feelings of one’s nature remain untouched. It is reserved
for the solitary and persevering fly to call forth the wildest passion
and the bitterest personal animosity of which the human breast is
capable. There is no mistake about which fly it was that crawled up
your nose and caused you to let fall your favourite pipe in a spasm of
facial agony, and break it to pieces on the floor. There is only one.
There is not another near you for miles. He is always bad at any time,
but pray earnestly that the Solitary Fly may never attack you after
dark, just when you have lit the lamp and are preparing for a quiet
read and a smoke. If he does he will break everything in the room; at
least, he will make you, which comes to the same thing. Having smashed
your pipe, an injury which he knows you will resent deeply, he settles
in a conspicuous position on the edge of the mantelpiece, not on the
clock, but near it, and remains perfectly still. As you sit down again
with a fresh pipe, the idea is certain to suggest itself that, now he
is so quiet, it is a splendid opportunity to finish him. There is sure
to be a towel, or a coat, or something handy, left there by your evil
genius to lure you on to ruin. Seizing the towel, and laying your pipe
carefully down for fear of accidents, you rise cautiously up, keeping
an eye on the fly all the time. If absolute immobility means anything,
he does not see you coming. His indifference is, if anything, just a
little overdone. You do not notice it at the time, in your excitement,
but afterwards it occurs to you that no fly ever sat as still as that,
except with some diabolical purpose.
Fury nerves your arm, and the towel descends upon the mantelpiece with
a violence that throws a transient uncertainty over the fate of the
fly, but leaves no sort of doubt about the clock, which is hurled into
the fireplace, and lies there a hopeless wreck. The towel was longer
than you thought it was, that is all, and two china ornaments, after
rocking doubtfully backwards and forwards once or twice, roll suddenly
over the edge, and commit suicide by the remains of the clock. The
ruin is so complete that you are encouraged to hope that your enemy
has perished in the midst of it. Once more you sit down, and the few
minutes of peace that succeed would be heaven, if it were not for the
uncertainty that still surrounds the fate of the fly. Just as you are
beginning to allow yourself to hope that your troubles are over, small
cold damp feet planted on the back of your neck remind you that your
adversary is not only not dead, but inclined to be quite as brutally
annoying as ever. You had better give in. He will settle on the lamp
next, and you will certainly smash it to pieces in trying to kill him;
so you may just as well put it out at once, and go to bed.
About the end of July, on the coast, Bush-fires begin, and go on all
August and September. The grass grows very rank and long in many
places, and is much improved by being burnt off every year. It is a
great object to get the whole of one’s run burnt every year, but it
is also very important to avoid getting the whole of it swept at the
same time. In order to guard against this, the parts of it that will
burn first are set fire to as soon as they are ready. Directly the
first shower falls these parts are immediately covered with beautiful
young grass, “burnt feed” as it is called, which grows with wonderful
rapidity. When the whole country is burning in patches for miles round,
it is a very pretty sight to see the fire at night creeping up the
sides of the mountains, the whole outline of a range sometimes being
marked by a long line of fire against the steel blue of the sky. A
considerable rise in the normal temperature, of course, takes place
in a district where large Bush-fires are burning, and the atmosphere
for weeks at a time is hazy with smoke. But to anyone who has seen
a Bush-fire, at any rate in Queensland, the wild stories of men on
horseback, and herds of wild animals, flying for their lives before the
advancing flames, become the merest fables.
I never saw a Bush-fire, even when backed up by a strong wind, that
one could not walk away from, with the greatest ease; and even when
the grass was three or four feet long, I never saw one that one could
not, with equal ease, walk straight through on to the blackened country
beyond. In Victoria and New South Wales the danger of a Bush-fire is
much increased by the fact that the tops of the trees burn as well as
the grass, and the flames are carried away from one to the other with
considerable rapidity, if there is a high wind blowing at the time. But
unless deprived of his senses by terror, no one but the most stupid man
could contrive to be killed by a Bush-fire.
In the dry weather, as the small lagoons and water-holes scattered
all over the country get low and dried up, large numbers of every
kind of wild ducks congregate on the big lagoon in front of Mount
Spencer station. In the evenings we used to have some very good
flight-shooting, one of us standing on each side of the lagoon, at
a point in the middle where it narrowed down to a neck only about
a hundred yards wide, opening out again beyond into a second large
lagoon, or rather a swamp, between which and the main water the ducks
used to fly backwards and forwards just about sundown. But by far the
best duck-shooting, and indeed the best shooting of any kind that I
ever saw in Australia, was down on the Pioneer River, which literally
swarmed with ducks from October to January.
One day, towards the end of November, eight of us set off, with a gun
apiece, and several niggers to drive, a spring-cart keeping in our
tracks to bring along the ducks which we bagged. There are about ten
duck-drives on the river, each from a mile to a mile and a half in
length, and it takes two days to work it all properly.
Arrived at the first station, we hung our horses up some distance from
the bank, and stationed ourselves in a line across the bed of the
river, which just there was full of rocky islands covered with bushes.
On each side the banks rose up to a great height, so that there was no
fear of any ducks that the niggers might put up leaving the river. They
all came in twos and threes, and small mobs, beautiful “rocketers”
right over our heads, as pretty shooting as one would wish to see. I
know nothing pleasanter, on a broiling hot day, than to stand up to
one’s knees in the cool clear running water, or sit down on a shady
rock, with a pipe of nigger-head in full swing, knocking over the ducks
as they come overhead. Let those who like extol the pleasure of walking
up your game. For myself, I infinitely prefer the delights of driving,
which combines the joy of anticipation, the additional satisfaction of
shooting a bird that is flying as fast as it can instead of flapping,
and the inestimable advantage of sitting perfectly still oneself. There
is no lack of variety in the shooting on the Pioneer, and the bag at
the end of the day is certain to contain at least five different kinds
of ducks.
How many ducks eight good shots would bag in the two days it is very
difficult to say. My brother was not with us on this occasion, and I
can confidently declare that I never saw seven worse shots. My own was
by no means a satisfactory performance, and I do not think I got more
shots than anyone else, but out of 117 ducks, which we killed in one
day, I myself shot sixty-three, and ought to have shot a great many
more. Of course, numbers are lost. In the middle of a drive one cannot
stop to pick them up; and besides the winged ones which escape, many
which fall into the stream are carried out into the deep pools, where
it is most unsafe to follow them, on account of the numerous alligators
which haunt the river. These brutes breed on the banks, and I remember
once coming upon a nest that had just hatched. The young ones had
shuffled into the water for the first time, and were paddling about
in the most awkward way, some on their sides and some on their backs,
learning how to swim. The old one was there, lying close to the bank,
in about three feet of perfectly clear water. She never attempted to
move until I got a long pole and jobbed her on the back with it, when
she crawled sulkily off into the black depths of the pool.
In crossing the Fitzroy River at Yaamba I once had a narrow escape of
being “scruffed” by an alligator. There was a fresh in the river at the
time, and the water was very muddy and thick. The crossing was about a
hundred yards wide, and the water just up to the saddle-flaps. When I
got within about ten yards of the opposite bank, my horse made a roll
and a plunge forward, sending his head right under water. I thought,
of course, that he had stumbled over a log; but a moment after the
head of an enormous alligator appeared close to my leg. His jaws were
open, and he made a snap which took effect on my horse’s belly, the
two upper teeth of the brute leaving two clean deep cuts about four
inches long. This had the effect of considerably hastening my horse’s
exit from the water, but it had exactly the opposite effect on the
animal that a man was riding some twenty yards behind me. Evidently it
had caught sight of the alligator, for it remained rooted to the spot,
shaking and snorting with terror, and absolutely refusing to move one
way or the other. The apprehensions of its rider were, if anything,
even more acute, and his appearance was a perfect study, as he knelt
up on the highest point of his saddle, tucking his feet under him, and
trying to make himself as small as possible. He had no whip, and would
have died sooner than put one of his feet down to use his spurs; so
he did nothing but shout and swear at his horse, which had the effect
of terrifying it more than ever. Every moment I expected, and so did
he, to see the alligator’s head alongside of him; but, strange to say,
though it was at least five minutes before his horse would move, it
never appeared again until just as he was safe ashore.
The Fitzroy is the most southern water in Australia in which
alligators are found, but from there up to Cape York the rivers and
creeks are full of them. Why they are called alligators no one knows,
for the formation of their jaws and the shape of their head distinctly
prove them to be crocodiles. They have a great fancy for dogs in the
way of food when they can get them; but their diet extends over a
varied range, from a full-grown cow to a paving-stone. On one of the
plantations on the Pioneer an alligator was seen to perform a feat
which gives some idea of the enormous strength which these brutes
possess. The milking-cows belonging to the plantation used to go down
every morning to the river to drink. The bank was rather steep, and the
water just there deepened very quickly. As one of the cows was standing
drinking, with her forelegs in the water, an alligator came up and
caught her by the nose, and, in spite of the animal’s struggles, held
firmly on, and succeeded in dragging her down into the depths of the
pool. The incline of the bank was, of course, in the reptile’s favour,
and no doubt terror deprived the cow partly of her strength; but,
anyway, the pair of them disappeared, and the cow never was seen again.
With regard to the paving-stones, no one knows whether they are taken
in for ballast, or to assist digestion, or to fill a vacuum caused by
hunger; but it is a very common thing to find half-a-dozen stones, each
double the size of a man’s fist, in the stomach of an alligator.
Down at the end of the run, at a place called Blue Mountain, about
fourteen miles from Mount Spencer, there were a quantity of wild pigs,
and we had long been meditating a pig-sticking excursion. No one had
ever tried to import this kind of sport into Australia before. There
are plenty of wild pigs in some parts; but the country in which they
are found is so rough, it looks almost like suicide to ride after them.
However, one has to ride after cattle in just the same country; and
there is no more reason why one should break one’s neck riding after a
pig than after a bullock, seeing one goes just as fast as the other.
My brother had written home to me that he thought there was some
healthy fun to be got out of the pigs on Blue Mountain flats, so I
brought out three of Thornhill’s spears with me, and on my way through
Singapore I collected some bamboos for shafts. Armed with a spear
apiece, Rice and my brother and I set out one day, towards the end of
August, to try our luck. It was the wrong time of year, as the grass
was fearfully long; but we had been so busy, and had to put it off so
often, we would not wait any more, and took the first spare time that
we could get. We camped over-night at the hut at Blue Mountain, a small
out-station with a horse-paddock and a yard, and early next morning we
sallied out on to the neighbouring flats to look for the pigs.
The country was heavily timbered, and the grass everywhere from two
to three feet long, and in some places four or five. Any quantity of
fallen trees and dead timber were scattered about, but there were
no stones, and the country was pretty free from blind gullies, and,
barring the long grass, it was not a bad place for galloping. We had
not to look long for our game. Sneaking quietly across a small creek,
as we emerged on the opposite bank, we came right upon a mob of eleven
pigs, and amongst them two enormous boars. The instant they saw us
they tried to make for the bank of the creek, but with a wild yell
we charged at them, and succeeded in cutting them off from the creek
and turning them back on to the flat. Away we went after them, and,
neglecting the small fry, my brother and I singled out one of the
boars, and Rice pursued the other. For about half a mile the pace was
excellent, and the fallen timber made it very lively.
My brother and I were rapidly coming up with our pig, when suddenly he
disappeared into a gully. He was out the other side and away again in
a moment; but we had to make a slight round to cross the gully, which
gave him a bit of a start again. The country was pretty open the other
side, so we could hit out like anything, and once more we were close
on to the boar, who was getting about played out, when in crossing a
patch of long grass my horse went head over heels over a fallen tree,
and sent me flying over his head. Neither of us were hurt, but, of
course, my horse cleared out for home, with his tail in the air, as
every Australian horse does the instant it parts with its rider; so I
picked up my spear, and set off after my brother as hard as I could to
see the fun. A few hundred yards farther on he came alongside the boar
and speared him in the neck. The brute turned sharp round and rushed
between his horse’s legs, almost upsetting it. My brother pulled up,
and the boar promptly charged again; whereupon his horse, which had
never been at close quarters with a pig in its life, began to buck like
mad. My brother hung on like wax, the natural disinclination of anyone
to be slung from his horse being considerably enhanced in his case by
the infuriated animal waiting to get a chance at him on the ground.
But the blood was pouring in torrents from the wound in its neck; and
before I got up, it had lain down to die. We finished it off, and then
examined my brother’s horse, to see if it was damaged. Fortunately it
had escaped with only a slight cut on the fetlock, which was lucky, as
the old boar’s tusks were over six inches long, and as sharp as knives.
A cooee from the ridges away to the right, about a quarter of a mile
off, informed us of the whereabouts of Rice. We set off, and when
we came up we found him standing with a broken spear in his hand,
examining the carcase of a still more enormous boar than the one
which my brother had killed. He had run him for about three quarters
of a mile, and in trying to spear him he had broken his spear, leaving
only about five feet of a shaft. A little farther on the boar “bailed
up,” on the top of a ridge, and stood with his legs wide apart, and
the foam dropping from his huge tusks, and looking altogether such
a discouraging sight, that nothing would induce Rice’s horse to go
anywhere near him. Whereupon he coolly got off, and, grasping the
remains of his spear, walked straight at the boar, without, as he
said afterwards, the slightest notion of what either he or the animal
was going to do. Of course the boar charged, and as the brute came at
him, Rice slung the spear at him with all his force, and with infinite
precision. It entered the animal’s chest, and he ran right on to it,
driving it into his heart, and falling dead on the spot. It was a most
miraculous escape for Rice; for if he had not killed the boar, it is
pretty certain the boar would have killed him.