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“Tethered goats!†Mac called us, and the world must apply the simile as it thinks fit. The wizard of the Never-Never weaves his spells, until hardships, and dangers, and privations, seem all that make life worth living; and then holds us “tethered goatsâ€; and every time the town calls us with promises of gaiety, and comfort, and security, “something pulls us back with a jerk†to our beloved bush.
There was no sign of rain; and as bushmen only pitch tent when a deluge is expected, our camp was very simple: just camp sleeping mosquito-nets, with calico tops and cheese net for curtains—hanging by cords between stout stakes driven into the ground. “Mosquito pegs,†the bushmen call these stakes.
Jackeroo, the unpoetical, was even then sound asleep in his net; and in ten minutes everything was “fixed up.†In another ten minutes we had also “turned in,†and soon after I was sound asleep, rolled up in a “bluey,†and had to be wakened at dawn.
“The river’s still rising,†Mac announced by way of good-morning. “We’ll have to bustle up and get across, or the water’ll be over the wire, and then we’ll be done for.â€
Bustle as we would, however “getting across†was a tedious business. It took nearly an hour’s hustling and urging and galloping before the horses could be persuaded to attempt the swim, and then only after old Roper had been partly dragged and partly hauled through the back-wash by the amphibious Jackeroo.
Another half-hour slipped by in sending the horses’ hobbles across on the pulley that ran on the wire, and in the hobbling out of the horses. Then, with Jackeroo on one side of the river, and the Măluka and Mac on the other, swags, saddles, packbags, and camp baggage went over one by one; and it was well past mid-day before all was finished.
Then my turn came. A surcingle—one of the long thick straps that keep all firm on a pack-horse—was buckled through the pulley, and the Măluka crossed first, just to test its safety. It was safe enough; but as he was dragged through the water most of the way, the pleasantness of “getting across†on the wire proved a myth.
Mac shortened the strap, and then sat me in it, like a child in a swing. “Your lighter weight will run clear of the water,†he said, with his usual optimism. “It’s only a matter of holding on and keeping coolâ€; and as the Măluka began to haul he added final instructions. “Hang on like grim death, and keep cool, whatever happens,†he said.
I promised to obey, and all went well until I reached mid-stream. Then, the wire beginning to sag threateningly towards the water, Mac flung his whole weight on to his end of it, and, to his horror, I shot up into the air like a sky-rocket.
“Hang on! Keep cool!†Mac yelled, in a frenzy of apprehension, as he swung on his end of the wire. Jackeroo became convulsed with laughter, but the Măluka pulled hard, and I was soon on the right side of the river, declaring that I preferred experiences when they were over. Later Mac accounted for his terror with another unconscious flash of humour. “You never can count on a woman keeping cool when the unexpected happens,†he said.
We offered to haul him over. “It’s only a matter of holding on and keeping cool,†we said; but he preferred to swim.
“It’s a pity you didn’t think of telegraphing this performance,†I shouted across the floods; but, in his relief, Mac was equal to the occasion.
“I’m glad I didn’t,†he shouted back gallantly, with a sweeping flourish of his hat; “it might have blocked you coming.†The bushman was learning a new accomplishment.
As his clothes were to come across on the wire, I was given a hint to “make myself scarceâ€; so retired over the bank, and helped Jackeroo with the dinner camp—an arrangement that exactly suited his ideas of the eternal fitness of things.
During the morning he had expressed great disapproval that a woman should be idle, while men dragged heavy weights about. “White fellow, big-fellow-fool all right,†he said contemptuously, when Mac explained that it was generally so in the white man’s country. A Briton of the Billingsgate type would have appealed to Jackeroo as a man of sound common sense.
By the time the men-folk appeared, he had decided that with a little management I would be quite an ornament to society. “Missus bin helpmeall right,†he told the Sanguine Scot, with comical self-satisfaction.
Mac roared with delight, and the passage of the Fergusson having swept away the last lingering torch of restraint he called to the Măluka; “Jackeroo reckons he’s tamed the shrew for us.†Mac had been a reader of Shakespeare in his time.
All afternoon we were supposed to be “making a dash†for the Edith, a river twelve miles farther on; but there was nothing very dashing about our pace. The air was stiflingly, swelteringly hot, and the flies maddening in their persistence. The horses developed puffs, and when we were not being half-drowned in torrents of rain we were being parboiled in steamy atmosphere. The track was as tracks usually are “during the Wet,†and for four hours we laboured on, slipping and slithering over the greasy track, varying the monotony now and then with a floundering scramble through a boggy creek crossing. Our appearance was about as dashing as our pace; and draggled, wet through, and perspiring, and out of conceit with primitive travelling—having spent the afternoon combining a minimum rate of travelling with a maximum of discomfort—we arrived at the Edith an hour after sundown to find her a wide eddying stream.
“Won’t be more than a ducking,†Mac said cheerfully. “Couldn’t be much wetter than we are,†and the Măluka taking the reins from my hands, we rode into the stream Mac keeping behind, “to pick her up in case she floats off,†he said, thinking he was putting courage into me.
It wasn’t as bad as it looked; and after a little stumbling and plunging and drifting the horses were clambering out up the opposite bank, and by next sundown—after scrambling through a few more rivers—we found ourselves looking down at the flooded Katherine, flowing below in the valley of a rocky gorge.
Sixty-five miles in three days, against sixty miles an hour of the express trains of the world. “Speed’s the thing,†cries the world, and speeds on, gaining little but speed; and we bush-folk travel our sixty miles and gain all that is worth gaining—excepting speed.
“Hand-over-hand this time!†Mac said, looking up at the telegraph wire that stretched far overhead. “There’s no pulley here. Hand-over-hand, or the horse’s-tail trick.â€
But Mine Host of the “Pub†had seen us, and running down the opposite side of the gorge, launched a boat at the river’s brink; then pulling up-stream for a hundred yards or so in the backwash, faced about, and raced down and across the swift-flowing current with long, sweeping strokes; and as we rode down the steep winding track to meet him, Mac became jocular, and reminding us that the gauntlet of the Katherine had yet to be run, also reminded us that the sympathies of the Katherine were with the stockmen; adding with a chuckle, as Mine Host bore down upon us. “You don’t even represent business here; no woman ever does.â€
Then the boat grounded, and Mine Host sprang ashore—another burly six-foot bushman—and greeted us with a flashing smile and a laughing “There’s not much of her left.†And then, stepping with quiet unconcern into over two feet of water, pushed the boat against a jutting ledge for my convenience. “Wet feet don’t count,†he laughed with another of his flashing smiles, when remonstrated with, and Mac chuckled in an aside, “Didn’t I tell you a woman doesn’t represent business here?â€
The swim being beyond the horses, they were left hobbled out on the north banks, to wait for the river to fall, and after another swift race down and across stream, Mine Host landed every one safely on the south side of the flood, and soon we were clambering up the steep track that led from the river to the “Pub.â€
Coming up from the river, the Katherine Settlement appeared to consist solely of the “Pub†and its accompanying store; but beyond the “Pub,†which, by the way, seemed to be hanging on to its own verandah posts for support, we found an elongated, three-roomed building, nestling under deep verandahs, and half-hidden beneath a grove of lofty scarlet flowering ponchianas.
“The Cottage is always set apart for distinguished visitors,†Mine Host said, bidding us welcome with another smile, but never a hint that he was placing his own private quarters at our disposal. Like all bushmen, he could be delicately reticent when conferring a favour; but a forgotten razor-strop betrayed him later on.
In the meantime we discovered the remainder of the Settlement from the Cottage verandahs, spying out the Police Station as it lurked in ambush just round the first bend in a winding bush track—apparently keeping one eye on the “Pubâ€; and then we caught a gleam of white roofs away beyond further bends in the track, where the Overland Telegraph “Department†stood on a little rise, aloof from the “Pub†and the Police, shut away from the world, yet attending to its affairs, and, incidentally, to those of the bush-folk: a tiny Settlement, with a tiny permanent population of four men and two women—women who found their own homes all-sufficient, and rarely left them, although the men-folk were here, there, and everywhere.
All around and within the Settlement was bush: and beyond the bush, stretching away and away on every side of it, those hundreds of thousands of square miles that constitute the Never-Never—miles sending out and absorbing again from day to day the floating population of the Katherine.
Before supper the Telegraph Department and the Police Station called on the Cottage to present compliments. Then the Wag came with his welcome. “Didn’t expect you to-day,†he drawled, with unmistakable double meaning in his drawl. “You’re come sooner than we expected. Must have had luck with the riversâ€; and Mac became enthusiastic. “Luck!†he cried. “Luck! She’s got the luck of the Auld Yin himself—skinned through everything by the skin of our teeth. No one else’ll get through those rivers under a week.†And they didn’t.
Remembering the telegrams, the Wag shot a swift quizzing glance at him; but it took more than a glance to disconcert Mac once his mind was made up, and he met it unmoved, and entered into a vivid description of the “passage of the Fergusson,†which filled in our time until supper.
After supper the Cottage returned the calls, and then, rain coming down in torrents, the Telegraph, the Police, the Cottage and the “Pub†retired to rest, wondering what the morrow would bring forth.
The morrow brought forth more rain, and the certainty that, as the river was still rising, the swim would be beyond the horses for several days yet; and because of this uncertainty, the Katherine bestirred itself to honour its tethered guests.
The Telegraph and the Police Station issued invitations for dinner, and the “Pub†that had already issued a hint that “the boys could refrain from knocking down cheques as long as a woman was staying in the place†now issued an edict limiting the number of daily drinks per man.
The invitations were accepted with pleasure, and the edict was attended to with a murmur of approval in which, however, there was one dissenting voice: a little bearded bushman “thought the Katherine was overdoing it a bit,†and suggested as an amendment that “drunks could make themselves scarce when she’s about.†But Mine Host easily silenced him by offering to “see what the missus thought about it.â€
Then for a day the Katherine “took its bearings,†and keen, scrutinising glances summed up the Unknown Woman, looking her through and through until she was no longer an Unknown Woman, while the Măluka looked on interested. He knew the bush-folk well, and that their instinct would be unerring, and left the missus to slip into whichever niche in their lives they thought fit to place her. And as she slipped into a niche built up of strong, staunch comradeship, the black community considered that they, too, had fathomed the missus; and it became history in the camp that the Măluka had stolen her from a powerful Chief of the Whites, and, deeming it wise to disappear with her until the affair had blown over, had put many flooded rivers between him and his pursuers. “Would any woman have flung herself across rivers on wires, speeding on without rest or pause, unless afraid of pursuit?†the camp asked in committee, and the most sceptical were silenced.
Then followed other days full of pleasant intercourse; for once sure of its welcome, bushmen are lavish with their friendship. And as we roamed about the tiny Settlement, the Wag and others vied with the Măluka, Mine Host, and Mac in “making things pleasant for the missusâ€: relating experiences for her entertainment; showing all there was to be shown, and obeying the edict with cheerful, unquestioning chivalry.
Neither the Head Stockman nor the little bushman, however, had made any offers of friendship, Dan having gone out to the station immediately after interviewing the Măluka, while the little bushman spent most of his time getting out of the way of the missus whenever she appeared on his horizon.
“A Tam-o-Shanter fleeing from the furies of a too fertile imagination,†the Măluka laughed after a particularly comical dash to cover.
Poor Tam! Those days must live in his memory like a hideous nightmare! I, of course, knew nothing of the edict at the time—for bushmen do not advertise their chivalry—and wandered round the straggling Settlement vaguely surprised at its sobriety, and turning up in such unexpected places that the little bushman was constantly on the verge of apoplexy.
But experience teaches quickly. On the first day, after running into me several times, he learned the wisdom of spying out the land before turning a corner. On the second day, after we had come on him while thus engaged several other times, he learned the foolishness of placing too much confidence in corners, and deciding by the law of averages that the bar was the only safe place in the Settlement, availed himself of its sanctuary in times of danger. On the third day he learned that the law of averages is a weak reed to lean on; for on slipping round a corner, and mistaking a warning signal from the Wag, he whisked into the bar to whisk out again with a clatter of hobnailed boots, for I was in there examining some native curios. “She’s intherenext,†he gasped as he passed the Wag on his way to the cover of the nearest corner.
“Poor Tam!†How he must have hated women as he lurked in the doubtful ambush of that corner.
“Howhe did skoot!†the Wag chuckled later on when recounting with glee, to the Măluka and Mac, the story of Tam’s dash for cover.
Pitying Tam, I took his part, and said he seemed a sober, decent little man and couldn’t help being shy; then paused, wondering at the queer expression on the men’s faces.
Mac coughed in embarrassment, and the Măluka and the Wag seemed pre-occupied, and, fearing I had been misunderstood, I added hastily: “So is everyone in the Settlement, for that matter,†thereby causing further embarrassment.
After a short intense silence the Wag “thought he’d be getting along,†and as he moved off the Măluka laughed. “Oh, missus, missus!†and Mac blurted out the whole tale of the edict—concluding rather ambiguously by saying: “Don’t you go thinking it’s made any difference to any of us, because it hasn’t. We’re not saints, but we’re not pigs, and, besides, it was a pleasure.â€
I doubted if it was much pleasure to Tam-o-Shanter; but forgetting he was sober by compulsion, even he had begun to feel virtuous; and when he heard he had been called a “sober, decent little man,†he positively swaggered; and on the fourth morning walked jauntily past the Cottage and ventured a quiet good-morning—a simple enough little incident in itself; but it proved Tam’s kinship with his fellowmen. For is it not the knowledge that some one thinks well of us that makes us feel at ease in that person’s company?
Later in the same day, the flood having fallen, it was decided that it would be well to cross the horses in the rear of a boat, and we were all at the river discussing preparations, when Tam electrified the community by joining the group.
In the awkward pause that followed his arrival he passed a general remark about dogs—there were several with us—and every one plunged into dog yarns, until Tam, losing his head over the success of his maiden speech, became so communicative on the subject of a dog-fight that he had to be surreptitiously kicked into silence.
“Looks like more rain,†Mac said abruptly, hoping to draw public attention from the pantomime. “Ought to get off as soon as possible, or we’ll be blocked at the King.â€
The Katherine seized on the new topic of conversation, and advised “getting out to the five-mile overnight,†declaring it would “take all day to get away from the Settlement in the morning.†Then came another awkward pause, while every one kept one eye on Tam, until the Măluka saved the situation by calling for volunteers to help with the horses, and, Tam being pressed into the service, the boat was launched, and he was soon safe over the far side of the river.
Once among the horses, the little man was transformed. In the quiet, confident horseman that rode down the gorge a few minutes later it would have been difficult to recognise the shy, timid bushman. The saddle had given him backbone, and it soon appeared he was right-hand man, and, at times, even organiser in the difficult task of crossing horses through a deep, swift-running current.
As the flood was three or four hundred yards wide and many feet deep, a swim was impossible without help, and every horse was to be supported or guided, or dragged over in the rear of the boat, with a halter held by a man in the stern.
It was no child’s play. Every inch of the way had its difficulties. The poor brutes knew the swim was beyond them; and as the boat, pulling steadily on, dragged them from the shallows into the deeper water, they plunged and snorted in fear, until they found themselves swimming, and were obliged to give all their attention to keeping themselves afloat.
Some required little assistance when once off their feet; just a slow, steady pull from the oars, and a taut enough halter to lean on in the tight places. But others rolled over like logs when the full force of the current struck them, threatening to drag the boat under, as it and the horse raced away down stream with the oarsmen straining their utmost.
It was hard enough work for the oarsmen; but the seat of honour was in the stern of the boat, and no man filled it better than the transformed Tam. Alert and full of resource, with one hand on the tiller, he leaned over the boat, lengthening or shortening rope for the halter, and regulating the speed of the oarsmen with unerring judgment; giving a staunch swimmer time and a short rope to lean on, or literally dragging the faint-hearted across at full speed; careful then only of one thing: to keep the head above water. Never again would I judge a man byoneof his failings.
There were ten horses in all to cross, and at the end of two hours’ hard pulling there was only one left to come—old Roper.
Mac took the halter into his own hands—there was no one else worthy—and, slipping into the stern of the boat, spoke first to the horse and then to the oarsmen; and as the boat glided forward, the noble, trusting old horse—confident that his long-tried human friend would set him no impossible task—came quietly through the shallows, sniffing questions at the half-submerged bushes.
“Give him time!†Mac called. “Let him think it out,†as step by step Roper followed, the halter running slack on the water. When almost out of his depth, he paused just a moment, then, obeying the tightening rope, lifted himself to the flood and struck firmly and bravely out.
Staunchly he and Mac dealt with the current: taking time and approaching it quietly, meeting it with taut rope and unflinching nerve, drifting for a few breaths to judge its force; then, nothing daunted, they battled forward, stroke after stroke, and won across without once pulling the boat out of its course.
Only Roper could have done it; and when the splendid neck and shoulders appeared above water as he touched bottom, on the submerged track, he was greeted with a cheer and a hearty, unanimous “Bravo! old chap!†Then Mac returned thanks with a grateful look, and, leaping ashore, looked over the beautiful, wet, shining limbs, declaring he could have “done it on his own,†if required.
Once assured that we were anxious for a start, the Katherine set about speeding the parting guests with gifts of farewell. The Wag brought fresh tomatoes and a cucumber; the Telegraph sent eggs; the Police a freshly baked cake; the Chinese cook baked bread, and Mine Host came with a few potatoes and a flat-iron. To the surprise of the Katherine, I received the potatoes without enthusiasm, not having been long enough in the Territory to know their rare value, and, besides, I was puzzling over the flat iron.
“What’s it for?†I asked, and the Wag shouted in mock amazement: “For! To iron duds with, of course,†as Mine Host assured us it was of no use to him beyond keeping a door open.
Still puzzled, I said I thought there would not be any need to iron duds until we reached the homestead, and the Măluka said quietly: “It’sforthe homestead. There will be nothing like that there.â€
Mac exploded with an impetuous “Good Heavens! Whatdoesshe expect? First pillows and now irons!â€
Gradually realising that down South we have little idea of what “rough†means to a bushman, I had from day to day been modifying my ideas of a station home from a mansion to a commodious wooden cottage, plainly but comfortably furnished. The Cottage had confirmed this idea, but Mac soon settled the question beyond all doubt.
“Look here!†he said emphatically. “Before she leaves this place she’ll justhaveto grasp things a bit better,†and sitting down on a swag he talked rapidly for ten minutes, taking a queer delight in making everything sound as bad as possible, “knocking the stiffening out of the missus,†as he phrased it, and certainly bringing the “commodious station home†about her ears, which was just as well, perhaps.
After a few scathing remarks on the homestead in general, which he called “One of those down-at-the-heels, anything-’ll-do sort of places,†he described The House. “It’s mostly verandahs and promises,†he said; “but one room is finished.Wecall it The House, but you’ll probably call it a Hut, even though it has got doors and calico windows framed and on hinges.â€
Then followed an inventory of the furniture. “There’s one fairly steady, good-sized table at least it doesn’t fall over, unless some one leans on it; then there’s a bed with a wire mattress, but nothing else on it; and there’s a chair or two up to your weight (the boss’ll either have to stand up or lie down), and I don’t know that there’s much else excepting plenty of cups and plates—they’re enamel, fortunately, so you won’t have much trouble with the servants breaking things. Of course there’s a Christmas card and a few works of art on the walls for you to look at when you’re tired of looking at yourself in the glass. Yes! There’s a looking-glass—goodness knows how it got there! You ought to be thankful for that and the wire-mattress. You won’t find many of them out bush.â€
I humbly acknowledged thankfulness, and felt deeply grateful to Mine Host, when, with ready thoughtfulness he brought a couple of china cups and stood them among the baggage—the heart of Mine Host was as warm and sincere as his flashing smiles. I learned, in time, to be indifferent to china cups, but that flat-iron became one of my most cherished possessions—how it got to the Katherine is a long, long story, touching on three continents, a man, a woman, and a baby.
The commodious station home destroyed, the Katherine bestirred itself further in the speeding of its guests. The Telegraph came with the offer of their buggy, and then the Police offered theirs; but Mine Host, harnessing two nuggety little horses into his buck-board, drove round to the store, declaring a buck-board was the “only thing for the road.†“You won’t feel the journey at all in it,†he said, and drove us round the Settlement to prove how pleasant and easy travelling could be in the Wet.
“No buggy obtainable,†murmured the Măluka, reviewing the three offers. But the Sanguine Scot was quite unabashed, and answered coolly: “You forget those telegrams were sent to that other woman—the Goer, you know—therewasno buggy obtainable forher. By George! Wasn’t she a snorter? I knew I’d block her somehow,†and then he added with a gallant bow and a flourish: “You can see for yourselves, chaps, that she didn’t come.â€
The Wag mimicked the bow and the flourish, and then suggested accepting all three vehicles and having a procession “a triumphal exit that’ll knock spots off Pine Creek.â€
“There’d be one apiece,†he said, “and with Jackeroo as outrider, and loose horses to fill in with, we could make a real good thing of it if we tried. There’s Tam, now; he’s had a fair amount of practice lately, dodging round corners, and if he and I stood on opposite sides of the track, and dodged round bushes directly the procession passed coming out farther along, we could line the track for miles with cheering crowds.â€
The buck-board only being decided on, he expressed himself bitterly disappointed, but promised to do his best with that and the horses; until hearing that Mac was to go out to the “five-mile†overnight with the pack-team and loose horses, leaving us to follow at sun-up, he became disconsolate and refused even to witness the departure.
“I’d ’av willingly bust meself cheering a procession and lining the track with frantic crowds,†he said, “but I’m too fat to work up any enthusiasm over two people in a buck-board.â€
A little before sundown Mac set out, after instructing the Katherine to “get the buck-board off early,†and just before the Katherine “turned in†for the night, the Măluka went to the office to settle accounts with Mine Host.
In five minutes he was back, standing among the ponchianas, and then after a little while of silence he said gently: “Mac was right. A woman does not represent business here.†Mine Host had indignantly refused payment for a woman’s board and lodging.
“I had to pay, though,†the Măluka laughed, with one of his quick changes of humour. “But, then, I’m only a man.â€
When we arrived at the five-mile in the morning we found Mac “packed up†and ready for the start, and, passing the reins to him, the Măluka said, “You know the road bestâ€; and Mac, being what he called a “bit of a Jehu,†we set off in great style across country, apparently missing trees by a hair’s breadth, and bumping over the ant-hills, boulders, and broken boughs that lay half-hidden in the long grass.
After being nearly bumped out of the buck-board several times, I asked if there wasn’t any track anywhere; and Mac once again exploded with astonishment.
“We’re on the track,†he shouted. “Good Heavens! do you mean to say you can’t see it on ahead there?†and he pointed towards what looked like thickly timbered country, plentifully strewn with further boulders and boughs and ant-hills; and as I shook my head, he shrugged his shoulders hopelessly. “And we’re on the main transcontinental route from Adelaide to Port Darwin,†he said.
“Any track anywhere!†he mimicked presently, as we lurched, and heaved, and bumped along. “What’ll she say when we get into the long-grass country?â€
“Long here!†he ejaculated, when I thought the grass we were driving through was fairly long (it was about three feet). “Just you wait!â€
I waited submissively, if bouncing about a buck-board over thirty miles of obstacles can be called waiting, and next day we “got into the long-grass countryâ€, miles of grass, waving level with and above our heads—grass ten feet high and more, shutting out everything but grass.
The Măluka was riding a little behind, at the head of the pack-team, but we could see neither him nor the team, and Mac looked triumphantly round as the staunch little horses pushed on through the forest of grass that swirled and bent and swished and reeled all about the buck-board.
“Didn’t I tell you?†he said. “This is what we call long grassâ€; and he asked if I could “see any track now.†“It’s as plain as a pikestaff,†he declared, trying to show what he called a “clear break all the way.†“Oh I’m a dead homer all right,†he shouted after further going as we came out at the “King†crossing.
“Now for it! Hang on!†he warned, and we went down the steep bank at a hand gallop; and as the horses rushed into the swift-flowing stream, he said unconcernedly: “I wonder how deep this is,†adding, as the buck-board lifted and swerved when the current struck it: “By George! They’re off their feet,†and leaning over the splashboard, lashed at the undaunted little beasts until they raced up the opposite bank.
“That’s the style!†he shouted in triumph, as they drew up, panting and dripping well over the rise from the crossing. “Close thing, though! Did you get your feet wet?â€
“Did you get your feet wet!†That was all, when I was expecting every form of concern imaginable. For a moment I felt indignant at Mac’s recklessness and lack of concern, and said severely, “You shouldn’t take such risks.â€
But Mac was blissfully unconscious of the severity. “Risks!†he said. “Why, it wasn’t wide enough for anything to happen, bar a ducking. If you rush it, the horses are pushed across before they know they’re off their feet.â€
“Bar a ducking, indeed!†But Mac was out of the buck-board, shouting back, “Hold hard there! It’s a swim,†and continued shouting directions until the horses were across with comparatively dry pack-bags. Then he and the Măluka shook hands and congratulated each other on being the right side of everything.
“No more rivers!†the Măluka said.
“Clear run home, bar a deluge,†Mac added, gathering up the reins. “We’ll strike the front gate to-night.â€
All afternoon we followed the telegraph line, and there the track was really well-defined; then at sundown Mac drew up, and with a flourish of hats he and the Măluka bade the missus “Welcome Home!†All around and about was bush, and only bush, that, and the telegraph line, and Mac, touching on one of the slender galvanized iron poles, explained the welcome. “This is the front gate.†he said; “another forty-five miles and we’ll be knocking at the front door.†And they called the Elsey “a nice little place.†Perhaps it was when compared with runs of six million acres.
The camp was pitched just inside the “front gate,†near a wide-spreading sheet of water, “Easter’s Billabong,†and at supper-time the conversation turned on bush cookery.
“Never tasted Johnny cakes!!†Mac said. “Your education hasn’t begun yet. We’ll have some for breakfast; I’m real slap-up at Johnny cakes!†and rummaging in a pack-bag, he produced flour, cream-of-tartar, soda, and a mixing-dish, and set to work at once.
“I’m real slap-up at Johnny cakes! No mistake!†he assured us, as he knelt on the ground, big and burly in front of the mixing-dish, kneading enthusiastically at his mixture. “Look at that!†as air-bubbles appeared all over the light, spongy dough. “Didn’t I tell you I knew a thing or two about cooking?†and cutting off nuggety-looking chunks, he buried them in the hot ashes.
When they were cooked, crisp and brown, he displayed them with just pride. “Well!†he said. “Who’s slap-up at Johnny cakes?†and standing them on end in the mixing-dish he rigged up tents—a deluge being expected—and carried them into his own for safety.
During the night the deluge came, and the billabong, walking up its flood banks, ran about the borders of our camp, sending so many exploring little rivulets through Mac’s tent, that he was obliged to pass most of the night perched on a pyramid of pack bags and saddles.
Unfortunately, in the confusion and darkness, the dish of Johnny cakes became the base of the pyramid, and was consequently missing at breakfast time. After a long hunt Mac recovered it and stood looking dejectedly at the ruins of his cookery—a heap of flat, stodgy-looking slabs. “Must have been sitting on ’em all night,†he said, “and there’s no other bread for breakfast.â€
There was no doubt that we must eat them or go without bread of any kind; but as we sat tugging at the gluey guttapercha-like substance, Mac’s sense of humour revived. “Didn’t I tell you I was slap-up at Johnny cakes?†he chuckled, adding with further infinitely more humorous chuckles: “You mightn’t think it; but I really am.†Then he pointed to Jackeroo, who was watching in bewilderment while the Măluka hunted for the crispest crust, not for himself, but the woman. “White fellow big fellow fool all right! eh, Jackeroo?†he asked, and Jackeroo openly agreed with us.
Finding the black soil flats impassable after the deluge, Mac left the track, having decided to stick to the ridges all day; and all that had gone before was smoothness itself in comparison to what was in store.
All day the buck-board rocked and bumped through the timber, and the Măluka, riding behind, from time to time pointed out the advantages of travelling across country, as we bounced about the buck-board like rubber balls: “There’s so little chance of getting stiff with sitting still.â€
Every time we tried to answer him we bit our tongues as the buck-board leapt over the tussocks of grass. Once we managed to call back, “You won’t feel the journey in a buck-board.†Then an overhanging bough threatening to wipe us out of our seats, Mac shouted, “Duck!†and as we “ducked†the buck-board skimmed between two trees, with barely an inch to spare.
“I’m a bit of a Jehu all right!†Mac shouted triumphantly. “It takes judgment to do the thing in styleâ€; and the next moment, swinging round a patch of scrub, we flew off at a tangent to avoid a fallen tree, crashing through its branches and grinding over an out-crop of ironstone to miss a big boulder just beyond the tree. It undoubtedly took judgment this “travelling across country along the ridgesâ€; but the keen, alert bushman never hesitated as he swung in and out and about the timber, only once miscalculating the distance between trees, when he was obliged to back out again. Of course we barked trees constantly, but Mac called that “blazing a track for the next travellers,†and everywhere the bush creatures scurried out of our way; and when I expressed fears for the springs, Mac reassured me by saying a buck-board had none, excepting those under the seat.
If Mac was a “bit of a Jehu,†he certainly was a “dead homer,†for after miles of scrub and grass and timber, we came out at our evening camp at the Bitter Springs, to find the Head Stockman there, with his faithful, tawny-coloured shadow, “Old Sool em,†beside him.
Dog and man greeted us sedately, and soon Dan had a billy boiling for us, and a blazing fire, and accepted an invitation to join us at supper and “bring something in the way of bread along with him.â€
With a commonplace remark about the trip out, he placed a crisp, newly baked damper on the tea-towel that acted as supper cloth; but when we all agreed that he was “real slap-up at damper making,†he scented a joke and shot a quick, questioning glance around; then deciding that it was wiser not to laugh at all than to laugh in the wrong place, he only said, he was “not a bad hand at the damper trick.†Dan liked his jokes well labelled when dealing with the unknown Woman.
He was a bushman of the old type, one of the men of the droving days; full of old theories, old faiths, and old prejudices, and clinging always to old habits and methods. Year by year as the bush had receded and shrunk before the railways, he had receded with it, keeping always just behind the Back of Beyond, droving, bullock-punching, stock-keeping, and unconsciously opening up the way for that very civilisation that was driving him farther and farther back. In the forty years since his boyhood railways had driven him out of Victoria, New South Wales and Queensland, and were now threatening even the Never-Never, and Dan was beginning to fear that they would not leave “enough bush to bury a man in.â€
Enough bush to bury a man in! That’s all these men of the droving days have ever asked of their nation and yet without them the pioneers would have been tied hand and foot, and because of them Australia is what it is.
“Had a good trip out?†Dan asked, feeling safe on that subject, and appeared to listen to the details of the road with interest; but all the time the shrewd hazel eyes were upon me, drawing rapid conclusions, and I began to feel absurdly anxious to know their verdict. That was not to come before bedtime; and only those who knew the life of the stations in the Never-Never know how much was depending on the stockmen’s verdict.
Dan had his own methods of dealing with the Unknown Woman. Forty years out-bush had convinced him that “most of ’em were the right sort,†but it had also convinced him that “you had to take ’em all differently,†and he always felt his way carefully, watching and waiting, ready to open out at the first touch of fellowship and understanding, but just as ready to withdraw into himself at the faintest approach to a snub.
By the time supper was over he had risked a joke or two, and taking heart by their reception, launched boldly into the conversation, chuckling with delight as the Măluka and Mac amused themselves by examining the missus on bushcraft.
“She’ll need a deal of educating before we let her out alone,†he said, after a particularly bad failure, with the first touch of that air of proprietorship that was to become his favourite attitude towards his missus.
“It’s only common sense; you’ll soon get used to it,†Mac said in encouragement, giving us one of his delightful backhanders. Then in all seriousness Dan suggested teaching her some of the signs of water at hand, right off, “in case she does get lost any time,†and also seriously, the Măluka and Mac “thought it would be as well, perhaps.â€
Then the townswoman’s self-satisfied arrogance came to the surface. “You needn’t bother about me,†I said, confident I had as much common sense as any bushman. “If ever I do get lost, I’ll just catch a cow and milk it.â€
Knowing nothing of the wild, scared cattle of the fenceless runs of the Never-Never, I was prepared for anything rather than the roar of delight that greeted that example of town “common sense.â€
“Missus! missus!†the Măluka cried, as soon as he could speak, “you’ll need a deal of educatingâ€; and while Mac gasped, “Oh I say! Look here!†Dan, with tears in his eyes, chuckled: “She’ll have a drouth on by the time she runs one down.†Dan always called a thirst a drouth. “Oh Lord!†he said, picturing the scene in his mind’s eye, “ ‘I’ll catch a cow and milk it,’ she says.â€
Then, dancing with fun, the hazel eyes looked round the company, and as Dan rose, preparatory to turning in, we felt we were about to hear their verdict. When it came it was characteristic of the man in uniqueness of wording:
“She’s the dead finish!†he said, wiping his eyes on his shirt sleeve. “Reckoned she was the minute I heard her talking about slap-up dampersâ€; and in some indescribable way we knew he had paid the woman who was just entering his life the highest compliment in his power. Then he added, “Told the chaps the little ’uns were generally all right.†It is the helplessness of little women that makes them appear “all right†in the eyes of bushmen, helplessness being foreign to snorters.
At breakfast Dan expressed surprise because there was no milk, and the pleasantry being well received, he considered the moment ripe for one of his pet theories.
“She’ll do for this place!†he said, wagging his head wisely. “I’ve been forty years out-bush, and I’ve known eight or ten women in that time, so I ought to know something about it. Anyway, the ones that could see jokes suited best. There was Mrs. Bob out Victoria way. She’d see a joke a mile off; sighted ’em as soon as they got within cooee. Never knew her miss one, and never knew anybody suit the bush like she did.†And, as we packed up and set out for the last lap of our journey he was still ambling about his theory. “Yes,†he said, “you can dodge most things out bush; but you can’t dodge jokes for long. They’ll run you down sooner or laterâ€; adding with a chuckle, “Never heard of one running Mrs. Bob down, though. She always tripped ’em up before they could get to her.†Then finding the missus had thrown away a “good cup of tea just because a few flies had got into it,†he became grave. “Never heard of Mrs. Bob getting up to those tricks,†he said, and doubted whether “the missus’ld do after all,†until reassured by the Măluka that “she’ll be fishing them out with the indifference of a Stoic in a week or twoâ€; and I was.
When within a few miles of the homestead, the buckboard took a sharp turn round a patch of scrub, and before any one realised what was happening we were in the midst of a mob of pack horses, and face to face with the Quiet Stockman a strong, erect, young Scot, who carried his six foot two of bone and muscle with the lithe ease of a bushman.
“Hallo†Mac shouted, pulling up. Then, with the air of a showman introducing some rare exhibit, added: “This is the missus, Jack.â€
Jack touched his hat and moved uneasily in his saddle, answering Mac’s questions in monosyllables. Then the Măluka came up, and Mac, taking pity on the embarrassed bushman, suggested “getting along,†and we left him sitting rigidly on his horse, trying to collect his scattered senses.
“That was unrehearsed,†Mac chuckled, as we drove on. “He’s clearing out! Reckon he didn’t set out exactly hoping to meet us, though. Tam’s a lady’s man in comparison,†but loyal to his comrade above his amusement, he added warmly: “You can’t beat Jack by much, though, when it comes to sticking to a pal,†unconscious that he was prophesying of the years to come, when the missus had become one of those pals.
“There’s only the Dandy left now,†Mac went on, as we spun along an ever more definite track, “and he’ll be all right as soon as he gets used to it. Never knew such a chap for finding something decent in everybody he strikes.†Naturally I hoped he would “find something decent in me,†having learned what it meant to the stockmen to have a woman pitchforked into their daily lives, when those lives were to be lived side by side, in camp, or in saddle, or at the homestead.
Mac hesitated a moment, and then out flashed one of his happy inspirations. “Don’t you bother about the Dandy,†he said; “bushmen have a sixth sense, and know a pal when they see one.â€
Just a bushman’s pretty speech, aimed straight at the heart of a woman, where all the pretty speeches of the bushfolk are aimed; for it is by the heart that they judge us. “Only a pal,†they will say, towering strong and protecting; and the woman feels uplifted, even though in the same breath they have honestly agreed with her, after careful scrutiny, that it is not her fault that she was born into the plain sisterhood. Bushmen will risk their lives for a woman pal or otherwise but leave her to pick up her own handkerchief.
“Of course!†Mac added, as an afterthought. “It’s not often they find a pal in a womanâ€; and I add to-day that when they do, that woman is to be envied her friends.
“Eyes front!†Mac shouted suddenly, and in a moment the homestead was in sight, and the front gate forty-five miles behind us. “If ever youdoreach the homestead alive,†the Darwin ladies had said; and nowtheywere three hundred miles away from us to the north-west.
“Sam’s spotted us!†Mac smiled as we skimmed on, and a slim little Chinaman ran across between the buildings. “We’d better do the thing in style,†and whipping up the horses, he whirled them through the open slip-rails, past the stockyards, away across the grassy homestead enclosure, and pulled up with a rattle of hoofs and wheels at the head of a little avenue of buildings.
The Dandy, fresh and spotless, appeared in a doorway; black boys sprang up like a crop of mushrooms and took charge of the buck-board; Dan rattled in with the pack-teams, and horses were jangling hobbles and rattling harness all about us, as I found myself standing in the shadow of a queer, unfinished building, with the Măluka and Mac surrounded by a mob of leaping, bounding dogs, flourishing, as best they could, another “Welcome home!â€
“Well?†Mac asked, beating off dogs at every turn. “Is it a House or a Hut?â€
“A Betwixt and Between,†we decided; and then the Dandy was presented, And the steady grey eyes apparently finding “something decent†in the missus, with a welcoming smile and ready tact he said:
“I’m sure we’re all real glad to seeyou.†Just the tiniest emphasis on the word “youâ€; but that, and the quick, bright look that accompanied the emphasis, told, as nothing else could, that it was “that other woman†that had not been wanted. Unconventional, of course; but when a welcome is conventional out-bush, it is unworthy of the name of welcome.
The Măluka, knew this well, but before he could speak, Mac had seized a little half-grown dog—the most persistent of all the leaping dogs—by her tightly curled-up tail, and, setting her down at my feet, said: “And this is Tiddle’ums,†adding, with another flourishing bow, “A present from a Brither Scot,†while Tiddle’ums in no way resented the dignity. Having a tail that curled tightly over her back like a cup handle, she expected to be lifted up by it.
Then one after the other Mac presented the station dogs: Quart-Pot, Drover, Tuppence, Misery, Buller, and a dozen others; and as I bowed gravely to each in turn Dan chuckled in appreciation: “She’ll do! Told you she was the dead finish.â€
Then the introductions over, the Măluka said: “And now I suppose she may consider herself just ‘One of Us.’ â€