hughenden — coach journey
standing on the banks of the flinders river, hughenden has a decidedly picturesque appearance. and in addition to its picturesqueness it is a place of considerable importance, being the present terminus of the northern railway, to which comes all the produce of the great pastoral west, and the depot from which those same pastoral regions derive their stores. though a trifle larger than the general run of bush settlements, the township is of the usual pattern, made up of vacant allotments, dusty streets, houses of wood built on short thick piles and roofed with the inevitable galvanised iron, a hospital, a court house, a divisional board hall, a couple of tin tabernacles, a chinese bakery, and a police station, with stores and hotels galore.
on arrival we rode up to our hotel, a long, low, one-storied building in the main street, and turned our weary horses loose in the stable yard. these township hotels are all very similar, the same peculiarities attach themselves to them all. the same long passage runs the whole length of the building, and off this the same stamp of bedrooms lie. the bathroom, when it is not used as a henroost, is always located in the spot most difficult to find, and every turning in the entire caravanserai, right or wrong, invariably brings one to the bar. sometimes the servants are moderately civil, but as a rule they are exasperatingly independent. the owner himself is nobody, the person of most importance, next to the barmaid, being the chinese cook. there’s an amount of electroplated dignity about those two officials which is simply freezing.
the arrangements are as good as can be expected in such places, and the prices are not more than usually diabolical. one objection (if we haven’t objected to anything already) is that the walls of the bedrooms do not run up to the roof, for ceiling there is none, so that every word we say can be plainly-overheard in the next apartment, except when the hotel is full, and then, just to vary matters, the noise is so deafening that you can’t hear yourself speak.
having had enough of riding, we decided, if possible, to dispose of two of our horses in hughenden, and to purchase in their stead some sort of a wheeled vehicle. we were confidently informed that we should be able to make just as good progress on wheels as in the saddle, be less bothered with horses, travel more comfortably, and at the same time carry more luggage and stores than heretofore. accordingly, we straightway set about our search.
owing to the scarcity of grass and water, horses were a drug in the market, and, as at normanton, we found everybody anxious to sell, nobody to buy. however fortune was not going to desert us in this scurvy fashion, for during the evening an old man put in an appearance with the information that in a few days he would have a buckboard buggy to sell ‘at a fair figure.’ we said ‘a fair figure’ sounded reasonable enough, but we would wait and see the conveyance before we committed ourselves.
on the face of it (of circumstances i mean, not the buggy) it was impossible, at the ruinous price of bush hotels, for both of us to remain. so on the remembrance of an invitation from a hospitable squatter in the neighbourhood, given us while in townsville, i decided to go on by coach to his station, leaving the long’un to follow with the buggy, if it should equal our expectations.
by the time these arrangements were concluded. we had made a considerable number of friends, and the night before i left they all attended to bid me ‘goodbye,’ gratitude is one of my strong points, and i shall not forget that ‘goodbye’ if i live to be a hundred. who they really were, or where they came from, neither of us had any idea. they trooped in, one after another, like imps in a pantomime. they were the most friendly set of ruffians i ever experienced, and every man jack of them had come with the invincible determination of drinking to our good fortunes as long as the drink and the money, or the credit, held out. i may possibly be wrong, but i think (i only say i think) that they acted up to their intentions.
during the evening, a thin, gentlemanly-looking young fellow lounged into the bar, and commenced a disjointed conversation with the goddess of the place. something about his appearance fascinated me, and instinctively i felt i was in the presence of somebody really great. pointing him out to a bystander, i asked who he was? ‘lor’ bless you!’ was the reply, ‘don’t you know who’e is? why! that’s’im who drives the winton coach, and a son of a gun of a fine driver, too, my colonial! takes you out tomorrow morning!’ there! i felt he must be a great man.
towards midnight, with protestations of eternal friendship, our meeting broke up. all who were able to, went home; the rest remained where they were till morning. one man in particular who had regarded me with peculiar favour all the evening, repeatedly avowed his intention of never leaving me.
i was just the sort of bloomin’ candidate for his money; no dogrotted woman suffrage about me, and i should have his vote if he busted for it. then calling heaven and earth to witness his unconquerable determination, he placidly laid himself down on the side walk and fell into a sweet sleep.
my coach was to leave at 4.30 a.m., and, as it was then considerably after midnight, i determined to turn in and obtain a few hours’ rest. but though i turned in, repose was not permitted me. my right-hand neighbour was a gentleman who snored — if such an inadequate word can express it. i had never heard anything like it before, and certainly i haven’t since. starting in a faint wheezy whisper, it gradually grew and grew in volume, until it reached the exact imitation of an empty iron water-cart rumbling over a cobbled pavement. no other description would give you any idea of it. it was the most soul-distracting noise imaginable; it split the match-board partition and contracted the iron roofing — almost. everybody in the neighbourhood was aware of it, and had something different to say on the subject. i heard them distinctly, and awaited the denoument presently i caught footsteps stumbling along the passage, then the handle of the snorer’s door was turned, and somebody entered his room. as i have said, the walls did not reach up to the roof, consequently all the proceedings could be plainly overheard by the occupants of the adjoining rooms. the interest was intense. we detested the delay; but we felt the avenger was fumbling for the snorer’s bed. presently he found it.
his voice sounded very ghostly in the stillness between the snores.
‘here, i say, you mister! wake up.’
‘eh! wha — what’s the matter? it ain’t time to get up yet!’
‘time be! say! now look here, do you think you’ve got any right to snore this bloomin’ old’ouse down?’
‘who’s snoring the house down?’ ‘you are!’
‘that be blowed for a yarn! what a yer givin’ us? snore? why, t haven’t slept a wink the whole of this blessed night.’
‘don’t you — that’s all. you just raise as much as ‘alf another snore, and i’ll raise you out of this’ere shanty in a pig’s whisper! you take it from me!’
‘oh, take a fit!’ etc. etc.
the visitor left, but in less than two minutes the concert had recommenced, and from my little bed i wondered who’d be the next to take the matter up. as before, the noise gradually grew in volume, shook the partitions, and rolled in sullen thunder down the passages. then a female voice, somewhere in the darkness, said —
‘jim!’
‘hullo!’
‘jim! there’s somebody snoring so’s i can’t sleep!’
‘hang’im,’e’s kept me awake these three hours. i reckon i’ll go and have a talk to’im!’
once more ghostly footsteps stole down the corridor, and once more i heard the fumbling for the snorer’s bed.
‘here. wake up!’
‘oh! go to glory! who’re you a comin’ round, and a worryin’ of folks at this time o’ night?’
‘who ‘ml? well, i’ll learn you who i am, blamed quick. i’m a shearer from the billabong as never called for tar. who are you to keep a whole bloomin’ hotel awake, cussin’ you for snorin’ and a roarin’ like a helephant with the ‘eaves? ’
there was a sharp crack, resembling the sound of a fist striking a hard cheekbone, and, in half a second, a rough-and-tumble struggle on the floor. then we knew that everyone was awake, for from all sides came signs of encouragement and advice. when, five minutes later, a husky voice said, ‘there! i reckon that ‘11 learn you not to snore!’ the enthusiasm was unbounded, and every man was wanting someone else to come and drink with him, at somebody else’s expense of course. i forget what happened after that, for within ten minutes i was asleep. when i woke, it was to find a lantern glaring in my face, and a voice saying, ‘four o’clock, and an awful cold morning. hurry up; coach starts in half an hour.’
after dressing myself by candlelight, i got my things together, swallowed a hasty breakfast, and went out into the bitterly cold street. a forlorn young moon was just sinking behind the opposite housetops, and her feeble light showed me a bulky substance standing in the road. this, on closer inspection, i found to be the coach. cobb’s conveyances are too well known to need much description. suffice it that they are heavy lumbering constructions riding on leather springs, with bodies somewhat after the fashion of the ordinary english coach. the box holds three passengers, the inside generally four; the luggage is piled on the roof and on a tray behind. five horses are driven, and as likely as not, three of the number have never been in harness before.
as i arrived upon the scene, the driver put in an appearance, and while leisurely scanning the load, made reference to some horses we should obtain at the first change. i was cheered to hear that they were ‘real warrigals,’ or in other words four kickers and a bolter, and altogether unqualified and unmanageable brutes. ‘well!’ said our driver complacently, ‘it won’t matter. i don’t reckon we’ve any passengers booked as’ll spoil!’ it was not a complimentary remark, and i was preparing myself to argue it with him, when the warning cry of — ‘all aboard’ sounded.
as i had not been fortunate enough to secure a box seat, i was compelled to ride inside. an enormous amount of luggage was booked, and for this reason we were much cramped for room. the front seat inside was usurped by portmanteaux, boxes, etc.; in consequence, three of us (a big, buxom bushwoman, going out as cook to a winton hotel, a little irish emigrant girl, lately arrived, and quite unacquainted with the customs of the country, and myself) had to find seating accommodation on one narrow seat. for this reason, and because i am bashful in company, for ninety-eight horrible miles i was compelled to ride with my legs dangling out of the window. they are good legs, but they were never meant to dangle. they became cramped and stiff beyond bearing, and before half the journey was done, they might have been anyone else’s for all i should have known the difference.
the driver called out ‘all right!’ the ostlers let go the horses’ heads, there was a second or two of wild plunging, then round went the wheels, and we were dashing out of the township into the unknown, at a pace that looked unpleasantly like running away. as soon as we were comfortably started i began to look about me. it was bitterly cold and dreary, so, to warm myself, i produced a pocket pistol loaded with some of the genuine stuff. in an excess of gallantry i offered my companions a nip. the girl declined, but my buxom friend embraced the opportunity with such alacrity that, i regret to say, on its return, the flask contained barely a small thimbleful. such is the variable nature of man that i began immediately to regret my ill-advised generosity. under its soothing influence, however, the good lady became communicative. she said, ‘young man! i had a daughter once,’ and when i had avowed my interest, she continued, ‘as fine a young heifer as ever made eyes at a policeman, an’ i give that girl a tip-top eddycation — i did!’
‘i don’t doubt it!’ was my reply, and as soon as i had said it, i saw that it was an unfortunate remark. she became quarrelsome in a second.
‘and phwat might ye mean by that?’ she asked. ‘let me be afther giving ye a bit of advice, young man. don’t you be taking me for one of your flighty pieces; d’ye mind me now!’
i protested my entire innocence of any such intention, whereupon she desired that the coach might be immediately stopped, remarking that, if i were a man, i’d ‘put me props up,’ when, though she was a poor, lonely unprotected female in a public conveyance, she’d teach me who was who! and so, for the rest of that pitiless journey, that aggressive female continued to blackguard me unceasingly; mile after mile she talked to me and at me, and whenever we stopped to change horses i was immediately invited to step down and engage her in combat on the spot. the driver and other passengers laughed; but in my humble opinion — and surely i ought to know something about it — it was a most unpleasant experience.
by the time the sun rose we were well out on the plains, long eye-aching tracts of desolation, with scarcely a tree or a shrub to break the terrible sameness of the view. our first change of horses occurred at afton downs head station, where we picked up the ‘awful warrigals’ before mentioned. they afforded us considerable entertainment. two of them opened the ball by throwing themselves down and mixing up the harness beyond all recognition. when they were put to again, they and their companions bolted with us out of the yard, carrying away the gatepost en route; after which they settled down to a break-neck go-as-you-please along the rough, uneven path, allowing us to feel that, unless they turned the coach over in the deep ruts of the track, or dragged us over the edge of some ravine, the danger might be said to be over. all this time the driver was smiling and conversing with the box passengers as calmly as if he were at his own tea table. i’ve seen a good deal of first class driving here and there, but never anything to equal what i saw that morning. it was superb, and even my lady friend forgot to miscall me in her enthusiasm.
as we progressed, the view became more and more monotonous; mile succeeded mile of grass laden plain, the tufted herbage showing a pale yellow colour in the glaring sunlight. the sense of illimitable space was most depressing, and, i said to myself, ‘woe betide the unfortunate man who should lose himself hereon.’ the following clipping from a district paper will give some idea of what he may expect.
oar hughenden correspondent writes as follows:— whilst the southern part of the colony is being devastated by floods, and lives are being lost thereby, a death from thirst has taken place here. the following is one of the most pitiful and horrible stories the writer has ever heard. on sunday morning a cook named james donald, together with his wife and child, sixteen months old, and accompanied by charlie de silva, the coloured ‘ice cream’ man, left hughenden for rockwood. the men had ‘charlie’s’ handcart as a baggage waggon. as is usual with the inexperienced bushman, only a small supply of water was taken, and this was exhausted by the time they had travelled seven miles. the men left the woman and child and went in search of water; this was early in the afternoon. the woman and child were alone the whole night, and during that time a horseman passed and gave all the water he had to them, also stating that by striking and following a fence he indicated, a dam would be found. in the morning, as the men had not returned and the child craved for a drink and her breasts were dry, mrs. donald went in search of them, and met them about 9 a.m. without water. she directed them to the fence spoken of by the horseman and patiently awaited their return. hours passed and no relief came, and she, poor creature, driven frantic by the piteous cries of the child for a drink, was at a loss how to act. at last, able to bear it no longer, she decided to leave the child and try and obtain relief. she took her stockings and tied the baby to a tree and started. she was met by a man named gerraghty, who took her to stevenson’s camp, got her water, and put her on the coach for hughenden in the evening. instead of going for the child, gerraghty went to town — twelve miles — to report the matter and get a fresh horse, during which time the child died. sergeant macnamara at once despatched two constables and a tracker, and followed himself with mr. warneminde in a buggy, taking the woman with him. the poor mother easily found the spot, but what a sight! the child was dead. he had broken from the tree in his dying agonies, and his head was bruised and cut, and worse still the body was being devoured by bulldog ants, who swarmed over the rescuers, lighting for their prey. his skin was baked with the sun, and the very thought of the death the poor babe suffered is horrifying. mrs. donald, now fairly mad, was then brought into the hospital. the men were still missing, but at noon on tuesday the tracker found them separated, and in a sinking condition; a few hours more, and they would have perished. they were taken to the twelve mile hut, and a buggy was sent out, and all are now in the hospital doing as well as can be expected. the above is a horrible tale of suffering. many will blame the mother for leaving the child, but let those who do place themselves in a like position. weakened by twenty-four hours without water, a big child, unable to walk and too heavy to carry, crying piteously for water, what could she do but try and get help for her suffering infant? surprise is felt at the action of the two men. fancy a man meeting an unprotected woman and child craving for drink, and being told her husband and mate were as badly off and searching for water, calmly wetting the woman’s lips and proceeding on his way. he should make his mark in the world. if mr. gerraghty had gone at once to the child it might have been saved.
now and again we sighted a few kangaroo, emu, and wild turkey, but as a rule not a sign of life met the eye. the only things which lent variety to the view were the mirages; lovely lakes, in whose glistening surfaces were reflected trees and distant mountain peaks, with wonderful distinctness. these constantly appeared before us, only to fade away as we approached.
sometimes we passed small parties of travellers (bushmen) either walking or jogging quietly along on horseback. i noticed that in the latter case almost everyone was well mounted, and led a pack horse, presumably his own property. these men form a class of their own, and many of them, i am sorry to say, belong to that low, miserable, thieving fraternity, who, from year’s end to year’s end travel the country, ostensibly looking for work, but inwardly praying, for all that they are worth, that they may not find it. their impudence exceeds belief, and such is the charity of the squatters, that it is possible for them to pass over the entire country from one end to the other, living on the fat of the land, and never called upon to do a stroke of work for their own support. their motto is a strange one; it is to the effect that ‘stealing is not stealing when you want what you take,’ and the sad part of it is that, as they always do want, there is only one side to it — their own. when they can’t thieve from the squatter they practise on each other. one station owner alone informed us that it cost him nearly two hundred pounds a year to feed these lazy animals. upon our asking why he did it, he said that if he denied them rations (flour, tea and sugar), they would, in all probability, embrace the first opportunity of revenging themselves with a box of matches on his paddocks, and it is better, he continued, to feed them than to lose thousands of sheep for want of grass. it was from this undesirable class that the men came who mainly originated the great bush strike a year or two back, when gangs of armed men prowled the colony, burning, maiming, and intimidating, at their own sweet will. that reign of terror will not soon be forgotten in queensland.
