The train left Bourke, and then there began the long, long agony of
scrub and wire fence, with here and there a natural clearing, which
seemed even more dismal than the funereal “timber” itself. The only
thing which might seem in keeping with one of these soddened flats would
be the ghost of a funeral--a city funeral with plain hearse and string
of cabs--going very slowly across from the scrub on one side to the
scrub on the other. Sky like a wet, grey blanket; plains like dead seas,
save for the tufts of coarse grass sticking up out of the water; scrub
indescribably dismal--everything damp, dark, and unspeakably dreary.
Somewhere along here we saw a swagman's camp--a square of calico
stretched across a horizontal stick, some rags steaming on another stick
in front of a fire, and two billies to the leeward of the blaze. We knew
by instinct that there was a piece of beef in the larger one. Small,
hopeless-looking man standing with his back to the fire, with his
hands behind him, watching the train; also, a damp, sorry-looking dingo
warming itself and shivering by the fire. The rain had held up for a
while. We saw two or three similar camps further on, forming a temporary
suburb of Byrock.
The population was on the platform in old overcoats and damp, soft felt
hats; one trooper in a waterproof. The population looked cheerfully and
patiently dismal. The local push had evidently turned up to see off some
fair enslavers from the city, who had been up-country for the cheque
season, now over. They got into another carriage. We were glad when the
bell rang.
The rain recommenced. We saw another swagman about a mile on struggling
away from the town, through mud and water. He did not seem to have heart
enough to bother about trying to avoid the worst mud-holes. There was a
low-spirited dingo at his heels, whose sole object in life was seemingly
to keep his front paws in his master's last footprint. The traveller's
body was bent well forward from the hips up; his long arms--about six
inches through his coat sleeves--hung by his sides like the arms of a
dummy, with a billy at the end of one and a bag at the end of the
other; but his head was thrown back against the top end of the swag, his
hat-brim rolled up in front, and we saw a ghastly, beardless face which
turned neither to the right nor the left as the train passed him.
After a long while we closed our book, and looking through the window,
saw a hawker's turn-out which was too sorrowful for description.
We looked out again while the train was going slowly, and saw a
teamster's camp: three or four wagons covered with tarpaulins which hung
down in the mud all round and suggested death. A long, narrow man, in a
long, narrow, shoddy overcoat and a damp felt hat, was walking quickly
along the road past the camp. A sort of cattle-dog glided silently and
swiftly out from under a wagon, “heeled” the man, and slithered back
without explaining. Here the scene vanished.
We remember stopping--for an age it seemed--at half a dozen straggling
shanties on a flat of mud and water. There was a rotten weather-board
pub, with a low, dripping veranda, and three wretchedly forlorn horses
hanging, in the rain, to a post outside. We saw no more, but we knew
that there were several apologies for men hanging about the rickety bar
inside--or round the parlour fire. Streams of cold, clay-coloured water
ran in all directions, cutting fresh gutters, and raising a yeasty froth
whenever the water fell a few inches. As we left, we saw a big man in an
overcoat riding across a culvert; the tails of the coat spread over the
horse's rump, and almost hid it. In fancy still we saw him--hanging up
his weary, hungry little horse in the rain, and swaggering into the bar;
and we almost heard someone say, in a drawling tone: “'Ello, Tom! 'Ow
are yer poppin' up?”'
The train stopped (for about a year) within a mile of the next station.
Trucking-yards in the foreground, like any other trucking-yard along the
line; they looked drearier than usual, because the rain had darkened
the posts and rails. Small plain beyond, covered with water and tufts
of grass. The inevitable, God-forgotten “timber,” black in the distance;
dull, grey sky and misty rain over all. A small, dark-looking flock
of sheep was crawling slowly in across the flat from the unknown, with
three men on horse-back zigzagging patiently behind. The horses just
moved--that was all. One man wore an oilskin, one an old tweed overcoat,
and the third had a three-bushel bag over his head and shoulders.
Had we returned an hour later, we should have seen the sheep huddled
together in a corner of the yard, and the three horses hanging up
outside the local shanty.
We stayed at Nyngan--which place we refrain from sketching--for a few
hours, because the five trucks of cattle of which we were in charge
were shunted there, to be taken on by a very subsequent goods train.
The Government allows one man to every five trucks in a cattle-train. We
shall pay our fare next time, even if we have not a shilling left over
and above. We had haunted local influence at Comanavadrink for two long,
anxious, heart-breaking weeks ere we got the pass; and we had put up
with all the indignities, the humiliation--in short, had suffered
all that poor devils suffer whilst besieging Local Influence. We only
thought of escaping from the bush.
The pass said that we were John Smith, drover, and that we were
available for return by ordinary passenger-train within two days, we
think--or words in that direction. Which didn't interest us. We might
have given the pass away to an unemployed in Orange, who wanted to go
out back, and who begged for it with tears in his eyes; but we didn't
like to injure a poor fool who never injured us--who was an entire
stranger to us. He didn't know what Out Back meant.
Local Influence had given us a kind of note of introduction to be
delivered to the cattle-agent at the yards that morning; but the agent
was not there--only two of his satellites, a Cockney colonial-experience
man, and a scrub-town clerk, both of whom we kindly ignore. We got on
without the note, and at Orange we amused ourself by reading it. It
said:
“Dear Old Man--Please send this beggar on; and I hope he'll be landed
safely at Orange--or--or wherever the cattle go--yours,---”
We had been led to believe that the bullocks were going to Sydney. We
took no further interest in those cattle.
After Nyngan the bush grew darker and drearier; and the plains more
like ghastly oceans; and here and there the “dominant note of Australian
scenery” was accentuated, as it were, by naked, white, ring-barked trees
standing in the water and haunting the ghostly surroundings.
We spent that night in a passenger compartment of a van which had been
originally attached to old No. 1 engine. There was only one damp cushion
in the whole concern. We lent that to a lady who travelled for a few
hours in the other half of the next compartment. The seats were about
nine inches wide and sloped in at a sharp angle to the bare matchboard
wall, with a bead on the outer edge; and as the cracks had become well
caulked with the grease and dirt of generations, they held several
gallons of water each. We scuttled one, rolled ourself in a rug, and
tried to sleep; but all night long overcoated and comfortered bushmen
would get in, let down all the windows, and then get out again at the
next station. Then we would wake up frozen and shut the windows.
We dozed off again, and woke at daylight, and recognized the ridgy
gum-country between Dubbo and Orange. It didn't look any drearier than
the country further west--because it couldn't. There is scarcely a part
of the country out west which looks less inviting or more horrible than
any other part.
The weather cleared, and we had sunlight for Orange, Bathurst, the Blue
Mountains, and Sydney. They deserve it; also as much rain as they need.
“RATS”
“Why, there's two of them, and they're having a fight! Come on.”'
It seemed a strange place for a fight--that hot, lonely, cotton-bush
plain. And yet not more than half a mile ahead there were apparently two
men struggling together on the track.
The three travellers postponed their smoke-ho and hurried on. They were
shearers--a little man and a big man, known respectively as “Sunlight”
and “Macquarie,” and a tall, thin, young jackeroo whom they called
“Milky.”
“I wonder where the other man sprang from? I didn't see him before,”
said Sunlight.
“He muster bin layin' down in the bushes,” said Macquarie. “They're
goin' at it proper, too. Come on! Hurry up and see the fun!”
They hurried on.
“It's a funny-lookin' feller, the other feller,” panted Milky. “He don't
seem to have no head. Look! he's down--they're both down! They must ha'
clinched on the ground. No! they're up an' at it again.... Why, good
Lord! I think the other's a woman!”
“My oath! so it is!” yelled Sunlight. “Look! the brute's got her down
again! He's kickin' her. Come on, chaps; come on, or he'll do for her!”
They dropped swags, water-bags and all, and raced forward; but presently
Sunlight, who had the best eyes, slackened his pace and dropped behind.
His mates glanced back at his face, saw a peculiar expression there,
looked ahead again, and then dropped into a walk.
They reached the scene of the trouble, and there stood a little withered
old man by the track, with his arms folded close up under his chin; he
was dressed mostly in calico patches; and half a dozen corks, suspended
on bits of string from the brim of his hat, dangled before his bleared
optics to scare away the flies. He was scowling malignantly at a stout,
dumpy swag which lay in the middle of the track.
“Well, old Rats, what's the trouble?” asked Sunlight.
“Oh, nothing, nothing,” answered the old man, without looking round. “I
fell out with my swag, that's all. He knocked me down, but I've settled
him.”
“But look here,” said Sunlight, winking at his mates, “we saw you jump
on him when he was down. That ain't fair, you know.”
“But you didn't see it all,” cried Rats, getting excited. “He hit _me_
down first! And look here, I'll fight him again for nothing, and you can
see fair play.”
They talked awhile; then Sunlight proposed to second the swag, while his
mate supported the old man, and after some persuasion, Milky agreed, for
the sake of the lark, to act as time-keeper and referee.
Rats entered into the spirit of the thing; he stripped to the waist,
and while he was getting ready the travellers pretended to bet on the
result.
Macquarie took his place behind the old man, and Sunlight up-ended the
swag. Rats shaped and danced round; then he rushed, feinted, ducked,
retreated, darted in once more, and suddenly went down like a shot on
the broad of his back. No actor could have done it better; he went
down from that imaginary blow as if a cannon-ball had struck him in the
forehead.
Milky called time, and the old man came up, looking shaky. However, he
got in a tremendous blow which knocked the swag into the bushes.
Several rounds followed with varying success.
The men pretended to get more and more excited, and betted freely; and
Rats did his best. At last they got tired of the fun, Sunlight let the
swag lie after Milky called time, and the jackaroo awarded the fight
to Rats. They pretended to hand over the stakes, and then went back for
their swags, while the old man put on his shirt.
Then he calmed down, carried his swag to the side of the track, sat
down on it and talked rationally about bush matters for a while;
but presently he grew silent and began to feel his muscles and smile
idiotically.
“Can you len' us a bit o' meat?” said he suddenly.
They spared him half a pound; but he said he didn't want it all, and cut
off about an ounce, which he laid on the end of his swag. Then he took
the lid off his billy and produced a fishing-line. He baited the hook,
threw the line across the track, and waited for a bite. Soon he got
deeply interested in the line, jerked it once or twice, and drew it in
rapidly. The bait had been rubbed off in the grass. The old man regarded
the hook disgustedly.
“Look at that!” he cried. “I had him, only I was in such a hurry. I
should ha' played him a little more.”
Next time he was more careful. He drew the line in warily, grabbed an
imaginary fish and laid it down on the grass. Sunlight and Co. were
greatly interested by this time.
“Wot yer think o' that?” asked Rats. “It weighs thirty pound if it
weighs an ounce! Wot yer think o' that for a cod? The hook's half-way
down his blessed gullet!”
He caught several cod and a bream while they were there, and invited
them to camp and have tea with him. But they wished to reach a certain
shed next day, so--after the ancient had borrowed about a pound of meat
for bait--they went on, and left him fishing contentedly.
But first Sunlight went down into his pocket and came up with half a
crown, which he gave to the old man, along with some tucker. “You'd best
push on to the water before dark, old chap,” he said, kindly.
When they turned their heads again, Rats was still fishing but when they
looked back for the last time before entering the timber, he was having
another row with his swag; and Sunlight reckoned that the trouble arose
out of some lies which the swag had been telling about the bigger fish
it caught.
MITCHELL: A CHARACTER SKETCH
It was a very mean station, and Mitchell thought he had better go
himself and beard the overseer for tucker. His mates were for waiting
till the overseer went out on the run, and then trying their luck with
the cook; but the self-assertive and diplomatic Mitchell decided to go.
“Good day,” said Mitchell.
“Good day,” said the manager.
“It's hot,” said Mitchell.
“Yes, it's hot.”
“I don't suppose,” said Mitchell; “I don't suppose it's any use asking
you for a job?”
“Naw.”
“Well, I won't ask you,” said Mitchell, “but I don't suppose you want
any fencing done?”
“Naw.”
“Nor boundary-riding'?”
“Naw.”
“You ain't likely to want a man to knock round?”
“Naw.”
“I thought not. Things are pretty bad just now.”
“Na--yes--they are.”
“Ah, well; there's a lot to be said on the squatter's side as well as
the men's. I suppose I can get a bit of rations?”
“Ye-yes.” (_Shortly_)--“Wot d'yer want?”
“Well, let's see; we want a bit of meat and flour--I think that's all.
Got enough tea and sugar to carry us on.”
“All right. Cook! have you got any meat?”
“No!”
To Mitchell: “Can you kill a sheep?”
“Rather!”
To the cook: “Give this man a cloth and knife and steel, and let him
go up to the yard and kill a sheep.” (To Mitchell) “You can take a
fore-quarter and get a bit of flour.”
Half an hour later Mitchell came back with the carcass wrapped in the
cloth.
“Here yer are; here's your sheep,” he said to the cook. “That's all
right; hang it in there. Did you take a forequarter?”'
“No.”
“Well, why didn't you? The boss told you to.”
“I didn't want a fore-quarter. I don't like it. I took a hind-quarter.”
So he had.
The cook scratched his head; he seemed to have nothing to say. He
thought about trying to think, perhaps, but gave it best. It was too hot
and he was out of practice.
“Here, fill these up, will you?” said Mitchell. “That's the tea-bag, and
that's the sugar-bag, and that's the flour-bag.” He had taken them from
the front of his shirt.
“Don't be frightened to stretch 'em a little, old man. I've got two
mates to feed.”
The cook took the bags mechanically and filled them well before he knew
what he was doing. Mitchell talked all the time.
“Thank you,” said he--“got a bit of baking-powder?”
“Ye-yes, here you are.”
“Thank you. Find it dull here, don't you?”
“Well, yes, pretty dull. There's a bit of cooked beef and some bread and
cake there, if you want it!”
“Thanks,” said Mitchell, sweeping the broken victuals into an old
pillow-slip which he carried on his person for such an emergency. “I
s'pose you find it dull round here.”
“Yes, pretty dull.”
“No one to talk to much?” “No, not many.”
“Tongue gets rusty?”
“Ye--es, sometimes.”
“Well, so long, and thank yer.”
“So long,” said the cook (he nearly added “thank yer”).
“Well, good day; I'll see you again.”
“Good day.”
Mitchell shouldered his spoil and left.
The cook scratched his head; he had a chat with the overseer afterwards,
and they agreed that the traveller was a bit gone.
But Mitchell's head wasn't gone--not much: he had been round a bit--that
was all.
THE BUSH UNDERTAKER
“Five Bob!”
The old man shaded his eyes and peered through the dazzling glow of that
broiling Christmas Day. He stood just within the door of a slab-and-bark
hut situated upon the bank of a barren creek; sheep-yards lay to the
right, and a low line of bare, brown ridges formed a suitable background
to the scene.
“Five Bob!” shouted he again; and a dusty sheep-dog rose wearily from
the shaded side of the but and looked inquiringly at his master, who
pointed towards some sheep which were straggling from the flock.
“Fetch 'em back,” he said confidently.
The dog went off, and his master returned to the interior of the hut.
“We'll yard 'em early,” he said to himself; “the super won't know. We'll
yard 'em early, and have the arternoon to ourselves.”
“We'll get dinner,” he added, glancing at some pots on the fire. “I cud
do a bit of doughboy, an' that theer boggabri'll eat like tater-marrer
along of the salt meat.” He moved one of the black buckets from the
blaze. “I likes to keep it jist on the sizzle,” he said in explanation
to himself; “hard bilin' makes it tough--I'll keep it jist a-simmerin'.”
Here his soliloquy was interrupted by the return of the dog.
“All right, Five Bob,” said the hatter, “dinner'll be ready dreckly.
Jist keep yer eye on the sheep till I calls yer; keep 'em well rounded
up, an' we'll yard 'em afterwards and have a holiday.”
This speech was accompanied by a gesture evidently intelligible, for the
dog retired as though he understood English, and the cooking proceeded.
“I'll take a pick an' shovel with me an' root up that old blackfellow,”
mused the shepherd, evidently following up a recent train of thought; “I
reckon it'll do now. I'll put in the spuds.”
The last sentence referred to the cooking, the first to a blackfellow's
grave about which he was curious.
“The sheep's a-campin',” said the soliloquizer, glancing through the
door. “So me an' Five Bob'll be able to get our dinner in peace. I
wish I had just enough fat to make the pan siss; I'd treat myself to a
leather-jacket; but it took three weeks' skimmin' to get enough for them
theer doughboys.”
In due time the dinner was dished up; and the old man seated himself on
a block, with the lid of a gin-case across his knees for a table. Five
Bob squatted opposite with the liveliest interest and appreciation
depicted on his intelligent countenance.
Dinner proceeded very quietly, except when the carver paused to ask the
dog how some tasty morsel went with him, and Five Bob's tail declared
that it went very well indeed.
“Here y'are, try this,” cried the old man, tossing him a large piece of
doughboy. A click of Five Bob's jaws and the dough was gone.
“Clean into his liver!” said the old man with a faint smile. He washed
up the tinware in the water the duff had been boiled in, and then, with
the assistance of the dog, yarded the sheep.
This accomplished, he took a pick and shovel and an old sack, and
started out over the ridge, followed, of course, by his four-legged
mate. After tramping some three miles he reached a spur, running out
from the main ridge. At the extreme end of this, under some gum-trees,
was a little mound of earth, barely defined in the grass, and indented
in the centre as all blackfellows' graves were.
He set to work to dig it up, and sure enough, in about half an hour he
bottomed on payable dirt.
When he had raked up all the bones, he amused himself by putting them
together on the grass and by speculating as to whether they had belonged
to black or white, male or female. Failing, however, to arrive at any
satisfactory conclusion, he dusted them with great care, put them in the
bag, and started for home.
He took a short cut this time over the ridge and down a gully which was
full of ring-barked trees and long white grass. He had nearly reached
its mouth when a great greasy black goanna clambered up a sapling from
under his feet and looked fightable.
“Dang the jumpt-up thing!” cried the old man. “It 'gin me a start!”
At the foot of the sapling he espied an object which he at first
thought was the blackened carcass of a sheep, but on closer examination
discovered to be the body of a man; it lay with its forehead resting on
its hands, dried to a mummy by the intense heat of the western summer.
“Me luck's in for the day and no mistake!” said the shepherd, scratching
the back of his head, while he took stock of the remains. He picked up
a stick and tapped the body on the shoulder; the flesh sounded like
leather. He turned it over on its side; it fell flat on its back like a
board, and the shrivelled eyes seemed to peer up at him from under the
blackened wrists.
He stepped back involuntarily, but, recovering himself, leant on his
stick and took in all the ghastly details.
There was nothing in the blackened features to tell aught of name or
race, but the dress proclaimed the remains to be those of a European.
The old man caught sight of a black bottle in the grass, close beside
the corpse. This set him thinking. Presently he knelt down and examined
the soles of the dead man's blucher boots, and then, rising with an air
of conviction, exclaimed: “Brummy! by gosh!--busted up at last!
“I tole yer so, Brummy,” he said impressively, addressing the corpse.
“I allers told yer as how it 'ud be--an' here y'are, you thundering
jumpt-up cuss-o'-God fool. Yer cud earn more'n any man in the colony,
but yer'd lush it all away. I allers sed as how it 'ud end, an' now yer
kin see fur y'self.
“I spect yer was a-comin' t' me t' get fixt up an' set straight agin;
then yer was a-goin' to swear off, same as yer 'allers did; an' here
y'are, an' now I expect I'll have t' fix yer up for the last time an'
make yer decent, for 'twon't do t' leave yer alyin' out here like a dead
sheep.”
He picked up the corked bottle and examined it. To his great surprise it
was nearly full of rum.
“Well, this gits me,” exclaimed the old man; “me luck's in, this
Christmas, an' no mistake. He must 'a' got the jams early in his
spree, or he wouldn't be a-making for me with near a bottleful left.
Howsomenever, here goes.”
Looking round, his eyes lit up with satisfaction as he saw some bits of
bark which had been left by a party of strippers who had been getting
bark there for the stations. He picked up two pieces, one about four and
the other six feet long, and each about two feet wide, and brought them
over to the body. He laid the longest strip by the side of the corpse,
which he proceeded to lift on to it.
“Come on, Brummy,” he said, in a softer tone than usual, “ye ain't as
bad as yer might be, considerin' as it must be three good months since
yer slipped yer wind. I spect it was the rum as preserved yer. It was
the death of yer when yer was alive, an' now yer dead, it preserves yer
like--like a mummy.”
Then he placed the other strip on top, with the hollow side
downwards--thus sandwiching the defunct between the two pieces--removed
the saddle-strap, which he wore for a belt, and buckled it round one
end, while he tried to think of something with which to tie up the
other.
“I can't take any more strips off my shirt,” he said, critically
examining the skirts of the old blue overshirt he wore. “I might get
a strip or two more off, but it's short enough already. Let's see; how
long have I been a-wearin' of that shirt; oh, I remember, I bought it
jist two days afore Five Bob was pupped. I can't afford a new shirt jist
yet; howsomenever, seein' it's Brummy, I'll jist borrow a couple more
strips and sew 'em on agen when I git home.”
He up-ended Brummy, and placing his shoulder against the middle of the
lower sheet of bark, lifted the corpse to a horizontal position; then,
taking the bag of bones in his hand, he started for home.
“I ain't a-spendin' sech a dull Christmas arter all,” he reflected, as
he plodded on; but he had not walked above a hundred yards when he saw a
black goanna sidling into the grass.
“That's another of them theer dang things!” he exclaimed. “That's two
I've seed this mornin'.”