the waters of Torres Straits, and the owner of a complete plant and
station on Friday Island. He has in his possession a splendid collection
of pearls obtained by him in the pursuit of his avocation during the
last ten weeks, their value being about £300, one of them weighing 8¼
carats, an egg-shaped pearl of remarkable beauty and lustre, and without
a flaw, being valued by him at £150; and as he also collected three
tons of shell worth £140 per ton at the same time, his venture was, to
my mind, pretty successful. On my making a remark to that effect, he
said the life was not all beer and skittles, having its full share of
dangers as well as its pleasures; and as an illustration he related to
me one of his diving experiences, when he had a fight with a shark. He
said “I was working at the time with my boat’s mate and crew, about 15
miles from Captain Hovell’s Shoal, out to the westward from here, and
was down in my diving dress, in about twelve fathoms of water. As I was
walking along I espied a shark lying on the bottom close to a coral cup
or sea fungi, and apparently fast asleep, so walked over towards him,
and lifting my foot, shod with the heavy leaden sole which it is
necessary to use in connection with the dress, I kicked him fairly in
the head. But I made a great mistake that time, for in about three
seconds my noble shark came at me like a bulldog. I was carrying a bag
with about ten shells in it, which partly hid my right hand; but,
unfortunately, my left hand was exposed fairly to view, and the monster
descrying it came towards it with a terrific rush, and succeeded in
touching it with his nose. Before he had time to turn and seize upon it
I managed to wrap the bag around it. I moved backwards and the shark
struck me twice with his tail, nearly knocking me over, when it would
have been all u. p.; but I managed to keep my feet, and obtaining a
little room, kicked him fairly in the teeth with my diving boot, which
gave him a start, and to my intense relief he turned tail and cleared at
the rate of 40 miles an hour. I can assure you that no one was more
pleased than myself at the termination of the encounter, as I was fairly
stunned with fright, and was totally unable to draw my dagger, which, in
order to keep bright and useful, is inserted in a watertight case, and
has to be turned four times in the sheath before it can be withdrawn.”
* * * * *
We weighed anchor on Friday morning, having, after all, been delayed
longer than we expected, got safely through the passage in a strong
ripping tide, and after an uneventful voyage down the Gulf of
Carpentaria, we sighted, about midnight on Saturday, a light that
pointed out the anchorage off the mouth of the River Norman.
We steered a course as straight as an arrow for the lightship, shewing
that our captain and his officers must have kept a very good reckoning,
and I cannot close my remarks upon this part of our journey without
bearing ample testimony to the kindness and courtesy of Captain Leggett
throughout the voyage, and to the care and attention bestowed upon the
passengers by one and all connected with the ship.
We cast anchor off the Norman River bar between twelve and one a.m. on
Sunday, and the steam tender “Dugong,” under the command of Captain
Campbell, came alongside in the small hours of the morning to convey
passengers and luggage up the river to Normanton, so that we had to turn
out pretty early in order to save the tide, and partake of a seven
o’clock breakfast before starting, the transfer of luggage being rapidly
and safely effected in the meantime, after which the whole of the
passengers are transhipped without delay, and we bid good-bye to the
good ship Rockton, which has carried us so far safely on our journey.
The anchorage at Kimberley is a wild dreary looking waste of water as
viewed from the deck of the small steam tender, it being fully fourteen
miles off the shore with scarcely anything visible to break the monotony
of the scene, the land lying very low and fringed with the mournful
looking mangroves so prevalent on the northern coast of Queensland; but
steam is up and away we go, shaping our course by means of the buoys
laid down to mark the course of the very circuitous channel which we
have to follow, bounded on either side by shallow sand banks covered
with sea birds of various kinds, who here find a congenial home, the
only land in view being on the starboard side and only just discernible
above the water’s edge, whilst some few miles off lies a ship which has
brought out a cargo of rails for the Gulf railway, but has made the
mistake of keeping too far out, she having anchored in five fathoms of
water and unbent her sails preparatory to discharging her cargo, but as
it was almost impossible for the lighters to lay alongside in such an
exposed position, her captain was making preparations to bring her a few
miles closer in and nearer to the lightship, in order to enable them to
get through the work. We cross the bar safely and shortly afterwards
sight the Telegraph Station at Kimberley, and as the Dugong is making
fair progress we are not long before entering the mouth of the river,
and a blast from the whistle brings off old Bob, the boatman, to receive
a few telegrams, conveying the fact of our arrival to the Normanton
agents of the Company, who have to make provision for our conveyance
from Baffle Group to the town, as the Dugong, drawing six feet of water,
is unable to proceed any further than that point in the present state of
the tide.
The Telegraph Station is situate on the left hand bank of the river as
we enter, and seems a lonely enough spot in all conscience, but I am
told the old man in charge has been there for years, and seems fairly
contented with his lot; his immediate neighbours consist of a tribe of
aboriginals to whom he is very kind, but they all received a terrible
fright during the hurricane that almost destroyed Burketown, as it came
tearing across here with terrific force sending a wave of water right
across the point, reaching half way up the little house with the red
door, situate on a sandbank a short distance from the beach, and making
the darkies believe their last day was at hand. The river here is a
noble looking stream carrying about five fathoms of water, the depth
from the bar to the mouth averages about four, and is nearly a mile in
width, and taking into consideration that not one pound of public money
has been spent in its improvement, it is, in its natural state, one of
the finest rivers in the colony; but the bar sadly wants dredging in
order to allow ocean-going steamers to enter the river, where they could
obtain safe anchorage in all weathers and discharge cargo without risk,
damage, or delay. Old Bob comes oft in obedience to the signal whistle,
seizes the line thrown to him and hangs on until the telegrams are
handed over, when he clears for the shore, off which are lying the old
pilot cutter, the new steam launch which has superseded it, and a
lighter belonging to the rail ship before mentioned. The bank on the
right hand as we steam up being very low and densely covered with the
everlasting mangrove, forming a splendid breeding ground for the Gulf
mosquito, but the land on the left is of much superior character,
consisting of lightly timbered forest country, well grassed, and of fair
fattening capacity, and now in the occupation of a small syndicate, who,
by means of a butcher stationed at Mrs. Armstrong’s old selection,
supply the pilot and Telegraph Stations, together with the various
vessels calling at the port, with beef of excellent quality, both horses
and cattle keeping in grand condition, more especially after the old
grass has been burnt and young green feed springs up, which it does in
about a fortnight after the fire has died away.
Here we observe the blackfellow in all his native dirt and
ugliness--numbers of both sexes, many of whom are clad in the costume of
the Greek slave--standing on the bank watching us as we steam rapidly
by, and shortly afterwards we pass Messrs. Burns, Philp and Co.’s steam
launch undergoing an overhaul on what Captain Campbell calls his
gridiron--a slip invented by himself for the purpose of occasionally
having a look at the bottom of the vessel he commands.
About ten miles from Kimberley we pass the Red Bluff, a low-lying red
ridge, situate about a mile back from the river, and chiefly remarkable
for the agitation that has lately sprung up with regard to the
construction of a railway from there to Normanton; but one can hardly
recognise as sound economy the idea of running a railway over flooded
country, on a course parallel with a navigable river, especially as the
surrounding land seems to consist entirely of swamps and salt clay pans,
which could never be made available for any useful purpose.
Fifteen miles up we pass the mouth of Walker’s Creek on the left hand,
on which there are some good waterholes about twelve miles back from the
river, near where the telegraph line to Kimberley crosses it, as well as
some very fairly grassed country of decent quality; and some distance
further on we pass the mouth of Wells Creek, also coming in from the
same side, whilst on either hand we pass numerous mangreve-lined small
inlets; in fact, one could almost call them ditches so narrow are they,
whilst the country is so level that the windings of the river itself are
something to be remembered, our boat’s head being pointed to nearly
every quarter of the compass during the passage; and some idea may be
formed of its twistings and turnings by the knowledge that it is fully
50 miles from Kimberley to Normanton by the river and only 20 in a
direct line by land.
As it is now about mid-day we have the pleasure of interviewing the
steerage passengers at dinner, and a fearful and wonderful performance
some of them go through in the operation, two or three individuals being
exceptionally expert at the Japanese trick of knife swallowing. It was
a wonder, as I heard a passenger remark, that they did not cut their
blooming throats, whilst the way others would load up, and after
disposing of a loaded forkful within their capacious jaws, dive the fork
they were using viciously into the nearest dish of potatoes for a fresh
supply, was a caution to snakes. Proceeding onwards we pass the barque
Florida and schooner Budgeree, both of Sydney, the Scandinavian skipper
of the latter having the cheek to ask the Dugong to give him a tow up to
Double Island, which reasonable (?) request was, of course, politely
refused.
Passing Double Island I was astonished at the enormous number of
Spoonbills perched upon the trees; they were literally packed in
thousands, this being a favourite breeding ground for them, and some
distance higher up the river the Captain gave me the word to look out
for an alligator, and sure enough, on arriving at the spot indicated,
near one of the beacons erected as a guide, we saw the scaly monster
sunning himself on a grassy bank, and succeeded in getting within twenty
yards of him before he glided silently into the water, where, with a
swish of his tail, he quietly disappeared from view.
He caused a great commotion amongst our passengers, many of whom had
never seen such a sight before, and all were on the look-out for another
of the tribe whose habitat was a little further on, their curiosity
being duly gratified as the saurian was at home, but hearing the steamer
approaching he also backed quietly astern, and as we came abreast, his
jaws and little twinkling eyes were all that could be discerned for a
moment as he plunged silently beneath the wave. Some little distance
below the Battle Group we passed the barque Lucy and Adelaide, of
Sydney, with her nose in the bank, and evidently aground till a good
tide should give her a lift, making it rather difficult for us to pass,
but we managed it safely, and shortly after one o’clock we made fast to
the primitive landing at the Group, where a string of wagonettes,
buggies, &c., were in waiting to convey us to town.
Planks were run ashore, passengers and light baggage landed, the balance
being transferred into a lighter for conveyance up the river to the
wharf at Normanton, and we take our seats in the conveyances provided
for the six miles drive which has to be covered before our journey is
ended, and in about an hour we are safely deposited at Hely’s
Transcontinental Hotel, where a cordial welcome from the hostess and
many old friends greets us on our arrival.
After a good bath and a cup of tea we drive down to the wharf in the
hotel trap to secure our luggage which had just arrived in the lighter,
a crowd of people being congregated on the same errand; and I witnessed
about as good a rough-and-tumble performance in connection with it as I
ever wish to see again.
The light packages, portmanteaus and tin travelling trunks, had been
bundled down into the bottom of the hold, and the heavy packages thrown
promiscuously upon them, bursting open locks and squeezing them out of
shape in a manner very annoying to their owners; and many were the
curses, not loud but deep, bestowed upon the lighter’s crew in
consequence, but fortunately my own came through the ordeal all right,
thus saving me from expending a certain amount of profanity, which may
prove useful on a future occasion. I meet many old friends at Normanton,
among them, Major Colless, Messrs. Heydon and Brodie, Charlie Hely, and
others, and we have a long chat over the late race meeting at which
Heydon and Brodie’s “The Moor,” secured the lion’s share of the spoil,
and to shew the sporting instinct of the residents of this go-ahead
town, a sweep of £50 each was duly entered into by four well-known
individuals, the conditions being that one and all should keep sober for
six months; or, in the event of any of them breaking the pledge before
the expiration of the time, his or their deposit should become the
property of the one who kept the agreement intact.
Fortunately, they all renounced whiskey until the time expired, when
they had an old-time spree just to treat resolution, and then, I
believe, handed over the whole of the stakes to some charitable
institution. We have to wait in Normanton from Sunday until Tuesday
morning, and in the meantime amuse ourselves as best we may, but there
is very little in the town or its surroundings to interest the
traveller, and time passes listlessly enough to those who have neither
business or occupation to while away the time. The town of Normanton
itself is very well situated, being built on a hard, red ironstone
ridge, which no amount of traffic ever cuts up; the only inconvenience
suffered being caused by the clouds of fine red dust that occasionally
sweep through the streets, and which clings to one’s clothes with the
tenacity of a Bathurst burr. It is also well supplied with banks, the
New South, Queensland National, and Royal being well represented, whilst
the hotels are also numerous and well kept, Hely’s, O’Shaughnessy’s,
Rafferty’s, and Davis’ being amongst the principal ones, but I must not
forget to mention the hotel kept by the Meriga family, it being quite an
institution in Normanton, and received a very suggestive appellation in
the olden days when residents and visitors did not care to walk too far
for a “nip,” as in consequence of its being fully a quarter of a mile
from the nearest house of entertainment they found that the walk made
them so excessively thirsty that it was unanimously christened “the dry
stage,” a title it still retains to the present day; and between
ourselves, there are many worse ways of passing away an hour than a
visit to the above place in the evening, as in the first instance, you
have an opportunity of cultivating a thirst that you would not sell to a
lushington for less than a “fiver,” and secondly, there are two of the
nicest and brightest girls one could wish to meet, ever ready to
entertain visitors with a musical treat such as one rarely hears, and
certainly never expects, in such an out-of-the-way place.
It was on a Tuesday morning at 4 o’clock when I was woke up to make
ready for the journey to Croydon, as Cobb and Co.’s coach starts
punctually at 6. An appetising breakfast was placed upon the table
shortly after 5, to which we pay strict attention, and, with luggage
packed, are at the booking office shortly before the time appointed,
where a regular rush ensues for seats, there being ten applicants for
the eight places on the coach; but having taken the precaution to wire
from Brisbane for a box seat I am all right, having for my mate Mr. B.
Cribb, the others managing to stow away somehow, one riding on the
footboard, another on top of the coach and six inside, whilst fully half
a ton of mails are stowed away on the rack, on top and in the boot,
which with passengers’ luggage makes altogether a tidy load for our team
of five horses.
Some little delay occurs through the absence of a break-block, it being
unsafe to proceed without that very necessary adjunct to our safety, but
at length we get properly fixed, and steering for the river are soon
safely on the punt and being towed across to the other side, all hands
being requested to alight during the operation for fear of an accident.
We get across all right, and stowing ourselves on board get fairly under
way for the diggings, and I am pleased to find we are in charge of a
very experienced whip in the person of Jack Lennard, a well-known driver
in times gone by on the Namoi River, in New South Wales, where he used
to tool the coach between Narrabri and Walgett for Bob Nowland, at the
time he was running opposition to M‘Namara, Vickery and Co., when
passengers were carried 150 miles for £1. We swap yarns about old times,
and many are the anxious enquiries Jack makes about old friends, many of
whom have gone over to the great majority since he left that part of the
country, and his heart fairly warms as I give him the latest news
concerning those still left behind.
Our route lies through miserable-looking country, the principal features
consisting of level teatree flats, with patches of quinine and coolabah,
all of stunted growth, scattered throughout with here and there
noisome-looking swamps, at some of which we observe carriers camped,
whilst the sound of the bells on their horses and bullocks resound on
every side, there being over 150 teams on the stretch of road 120 miles
in length, between Normanton and Croydon. The dust as we proceed becomes
something frightful, in fact, in all my travels I never saw anything
like it, as it is inches deep everywhere on the tracks, smothers the
trees and bushes by the roadside, and follows us throughout the journey
like a cloud, settling on our clothes, burying itself in our hair,
finding its way into our boots, and penetrating to our lungs in the most
aggravating manner, and we are not sorry for a short respite obtained at
one of the carriers’ camps abovementioned, as Jack, who seems to be
universally well known, observes some goats being milked, and pulling up
his team produces a whisky bottle, and with the addition of some fresh
milk begged from the carrier’s wife, concocts a very welcome refresher.
We pass enormous flocks of crows, who seem to hang to the roads in a
very suggestive manner; pass some very lengthy bullock teams containing
from 18 to 24 bullocks, all in very fair condition and in some instances
really fat, and following the course of the Carron River, arrive at the
Twenty-mile, our first stage out, where we change horses, have a cup of
tea, and shortly afterwards are again speeding on our way, the road
improving as we proceed, although the dust is as bad as ever, whilst
there is also a slight change for the better in the appearance of the
country. We soon rattle over this stage, it being only 15 miles in
length, at the end of which we are told dinner awaits us, but on this
occasion are doomed to disappointment, as the driver has forgotten to
bring along any beef, consequently we have to be satisfied with a liquor
up and a smoke, and a bite of chocolate cake which one of our party has
taken the precaution to bring with him from “La belle France.” However,
the hostess makes a cup of tea, which proves very refreshing and helps
to clear the dust out of our throats. This place is well named The
Rocky, there being some beautifully clear holes of water in the creek
surrounded by rocks, and it is evidently a favorite camping ground for
travellers, many of whom have turned out in the vicinity. We indulge in
a little revolver practice here. One of our party hangs his overcoat on
a bush and wagers that another of the party cannot hit it at 15 paces,
but the coat suffers, and as the horses have not yet been put to we
start for a walk along the road, partly to escape the dust and partly to
stretch our muscles, and succeed in throwing four miles behind us before
we are overtaken by the coach, which for this stage has a good although
rather mixed team harnessed to it, there being two grand horses for
leaders, whilst the wheelers are a couple of likely looking mules, who
slip along with us at a very fair rate of speed.
We pull up for a few minutes at Munro’s, have a refresher and away,
shortly afterwards meeting a carrier, who, with the proverbial
Queensland hospitality, invites us one and all to “have a booze,” at the
same time producing a bottle of the real “Mackay,” but as we have no
water with which to dilute it, we have to pass, and shortly afterwards
pull up at our stopping-place for the night--a fairly comfortable hotel
kept by Mrs. Paterson--where we obtain a plentiful supply of water to
enable us to get rid of the dust--a good supper of wild duck being in
the meantime prepared, to which you may rest assured we paid strict
attention when placed upon the table.
The Croydon coach meets us here, and after solving the problem of
stowing away fifteen passengers in six rooms, we are very soon safe in
the arms of “Murphy,” and sleep the sleep of the just until daybreak
next morning, when the cry of “All aboard!” rouses us to prepare for
another day’s journey. After a hearty breakfast we make an early start,
with a change of drivers, Jack taking the back track to Normanton, our
whip turning out to be a genuine specimen of a “Frenchman” from the
Emerald Isle, named “Barney,” who is a real gem in his way, and enlivens
the journey by many quaint remarks, and more especially by the way in
which he renders the chorus of two or three popular songs, his
performance of “Jack’s come home to-day” being simply indescribable.
As the track on this stage has again become very heavy we have a
five-head team, four horses and a mule, the latter getting fits from
Barney, and being continually sneered at as “Irish,” for “shure, yez
know, the divil a bit o’ good is he, the spalpeen,” but we manage to get
along very well, and at about 10 o’clock arrive at Mother Foot’s Lagoon,
a grand sheet of water 18ft. in depth in the deepest part, and which has
never been known to fail in the driest seasons.
There is a nice, clean-looking hotel here kept by Mr. Griffin, formerly
well known about St. George, and some distance away on the bank of the
lagoon the irrepressible Chinaman has settled down and formed a very
fair garden, with the produce of which he supplies carriers and
travellers, as well as the hotel.
Between the hotel and the Chinaman’s garden I come across a spot where
repose the last remains of poor old Frank Stubley, at one time one of
the richest miners in Charters Towers, and a man well known and esteemed
throughout the whole of Northern Queensland for his liberality and
generosity. He lies at the foot of a box tree, a short distance from the
water’s edge, and on the tree is carved the following inscription:--
+-----------------------------+
| SACRED |
| |
| TO |
| |
| F. STUBLEY’S |
| |
| MEMORY. |
+-----------------------------+
“J. Gill, 7th May, 1887.”
Poor fellow! He died at last in poverty, but I with many others can
safely say that he was no one’s enemy but his own.