the great plains — a mail change — the killarney hotel — sesbania — oondooroo — winton — westlands — boundary-rider’s tent — bimerah
towards midday, half our journey done, we stopped to change horses at a small hut built of sacking and kerosene tins, and standing quite by itself in what seemed the centre of this interminable plain. here we obtained lunch — roast turkey, damper, and tea, all as wretched as the hovel in which it was served. the individual who kept the place, and who was dignified by the title of groom, had been in the employ of the coaching company for four years; during the whole of that time he had seen no town, large or small, or had had any intercourse whatsoever with any people other than the coach passengers and the few wayfarers who chanced to pass his door. his sole occupation was to look after the company’s horses, and to have a team ready for the up and down mail every week. in the intervals, he watched the mirages and talked to the wild turkeys on the plain.
as soon as the meal was eaten we started again, and rolled along in the same monotonous fashion until evening. the afternoon seemed as if it would never come to an end, but at length night fell, stars began to twinkle, and the evening wind sighed drearily through the long grass. within the coach, the approach of night was even more desolate than the glare of day. we had exhausted our topics of conversation and abuse, so there was nothing for it but to stare at the dwindling landscape in silence. away to the left, beside a creek bend, a camp fire burned brightly; beyond that nothing but the evening star cheered the dull expanse of plain. at nine o’clock, sick to death of travelling, we pulled up for the night at a miserable three-roomed grog shanty, dignified by the name of the killarney hotel. here i had understood a buggy from sesbania station would await me; but as none had arrived i foresaw that i should be compelled to pass the night where i was. for several reasons this was unfortunate.
thinking i should require but little money, and being anxious to leave the long’un as much as possible for the purchase of the buggy, i had only brought a few shillings with me. my lunch had cost me half-a-crown, and my bed would swamp another; as practically they were gone, i had no more, and i wanted supper badly. but you can’t sleep, sup, and then decline to pay. so, in spite of my ravenous hunger (for a coach ride across queensland plains produces an appetite if it does nothing else) i was compelled to go without. feigning to be unwell, i retired to bed, whence i listened to the clattering of plates, and sniffed the appetising smells percolating from the adjoining room, in a perfect agony of hunger. surely, i thought, meat had never smelt so nice before. by the time the meal was over i could have eaten my boots, but i consoled myself with the reflection that i should certainly be at the station by breakfast time, and then i would make ample amends for my present discomfort.
next morning at daylight, the coach went on its way without me. breakfast time arrived and still no buggy hove in sight. oh! with what agony i watched the treeless horizon of that plain for a vehicle. the landlady stepped out and informed me that breakfast was on the table. bless her heart, i knew it was, better than she. once again i was compelled to feign indisposition. the situation was becoming critical; i had taken in the last hole of my waist strap, and what else to do to alleviate my hunger i knew not. i was too proud to confess that i had no money. perhaps it was just as well they kept no poultry, for assuredly, if they had, i should have lured an old rooster behind the hay-stack and eaten him alive. suddenly a brilliant idea flashed across my brain. i remembered that in my bag i had half a bottle of eno’s fruit salts. the thought was heaven; i rushed in, seized the bottle and took a strong dose. the gas was as good as a meal, and for a time the cravings of hunger were, to a certain extent, alleviated. but it was small use, for half an hour later i was hungrier than ever.
so the miserable morning wore on. lunch time found me still gazing across that burnt up plain for the buggy that never appeared. but if a vehicle did not come, the midday meal did, and again the same dismal farce had to be enacted. once more i took a dose of eno’s fruit salts, and once more i found temporary relief. then, just as i was on the point of going to the landlady and confessing everything, the buggy rattled up to the door and i was saved. but it was touch and go; there was only one more dose left, and what would have happened then, i dare not contemplate. two hours later i was seated in a cool dining room shaded by a creeper-covered verandah, making such a meal as surely mortal man never saw before. cold mutton, pickles, salad, home-made bread, cheese, and english beer. ye gods! it was a luncheon fit to set before a king!
space will not allow me to recount all the pleasures of my stay at hospitable sesbania, but the routine of one day may well be taken as typical of the rest. the house itself is a long low building with a broad verandah running all round it; the rooms, diningroom, bedrooms, and office, open on to this, and the verandah again on to the garden and tennis lawn. a hundred yards behind the house are the men’s kitchens and quarters, with the machinery sheds, and store. to the right of the quarters stands the stock yard, and beyond that, and on all sides, stretches the interminable plain.
the breakfast bell rings at six o’clock every morning, with the exception of sunday, which is a lazy day. as soon as the meal is finished a general move is made to the stock yard, where the day’s supply of horses are in waiting. every man secures his own animal and departs to his work, returning, unless detained, about half-past four in the afternoon. then an hour’s sharp tennis (for these queenslanders are never tired) prepares the body for the evening bath, or bogie as it is usually called, after which comes dinner.
when the evening meal is eaten, lounge chairs are dragged on to the tennis court, pipes are soon in full blast, conversation ensues, and bedtime occurs about ten o’clock. it is a hospitable station owned by hospitable men.
sesbania covers an area of 1,550 square miles, carries 195,000 sheep, 175 cattle, and 250 horses. it is principally clothed with mitchell, blue, and flinders grass; the soil is clay, and the timber mainly coolibar in the creeks and whitewood on the ridges. the breed of sheep is merino, that of the cattle durham; and the amount of wool sent off from the station yearly averages 450 tons greasy.
according to statements made to me, and for the truth of the majority of which i can vouch with a clear conscience, the principal drawbacks to life in these parts are droughts, bush fires, strikes, travellers want of useful timber, and plagues of caterpillars, rats, locusts, and cats.
regarding the four last a curious story is told. i am not going to say whether i believe it or not. you must form your own ideas about that. i simply give the story as it was told to me.
not very long ago, after an exceptionally hard season, heavy rain fell, and grass began to grow where, formerly, grass there was none. hardly had it made its appearance above ground, before a plague of caterpillars overran the country (when i say a plague i do not mean that they came by ones or twos, but by millions, covering the whole face of the earth); and when they had departed into the mysterious north-west, not a vestige of green remained. more rain fell, and again the plucky grass shot up. it was not more than just visible when a plague of locusts came, and eat it down again. finally, the locusts disappeared into the north-west, just as the caterpillars had done before them. the squatter, marvelling, looked on and wondered if his troubles were going to end here.
once more rain fell, and once more the grass sprang up. this time it was permitted to attain a decent height. but things were not to go smoothly after all. one morning a boundary rider killed a sneaking grey rat near his hut, and before evening he had killed half a dozen. within two days they were to be seen all over the plains in millions, devouring the roots of the grass as if they had been starved for weeks. it was a case of —
great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,
brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats,
grave old plodders, gay young friskers,
fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins.
cocking tails and pricking whiskers,
families by tens and dozens.
they infested the head station, they overran the house and store, they eat the saddles and harness, they played on the tables, devoured books, clothes, and boots with equal impartiality, and finally disappeared into the north-west as mysteriously as they arrived.
now comes the marvellous part of the story. hardly were they gone before cats put in an appearance; tortoiseshells, tabbies, blacks, browns, and greys; everyone twice as big as decent respectable mousers ought to be, and everyone bent on catching up those rats. they stayed about a week, then into the north-west they too vanished, leaving the squatter amazed and frightened, as to what might next appear. when i heard this story i thought to myself the plagues of egypt would have to be original to command attention in western queensland. but to return to my log-book.
after a few days, the long’un put in an appearance with our purchase, the most wretched old scarecrow of a buggy mortal man ever saw. our worthy friends cyclops and polyphemus were in the traces, and the venerable mr. pickwick, more cringingly apologetic than ever, was in attendance on the luggage at the back. looking at the whole concern i was irresistibly reminded of rudyard
kipling’s ‘ballad of the bolivar,’ whereupon we christened her ‘the bolivar!’ at once. she was such a wreck that we ‘felt her hog and felt her sag, betted when she’d break,’ every time she moved.
after a day or two’s tinkering up, and constant anxiety about the dishing of her wheels, we said goodbye to our kind friends the messrs. bostock, and struck south-east across the plains for manuka and oondooroo. the latter is a wonderful property, and quite the show place of the district. here some 250,000 sheep are yearly shorn by machinery (wolseley patent), while, most astonishing of all, telephones, with the idea of centralising bush fires, and thus saving both horseflesh and men’s time, have been erected all over the run. at certain seasons of the year, bush fires started by travellers or by natural combustion are very prevalent. if one hasn’t to work at them or to lose by them, they are gorgeous sights, sometimes extending as much as thirty miles, with flames, in a good grass season, rising into the air to the height of sixty feet. they carry everything before them, and woe betide the unfortunate carrier, drover, or traveller who may happen to be in the front of one.
these carriers are queer folk, and the outcome of a queerer civilisation. their business in life is to convey stores, etc., by means of bullock or horse waggons, between the civilised east and the stations in the far west. as a rule they are brought up to the work from earliest childhood, know no home save their enormous waggons, and no companions save their teams, from the day of their birth to the day of their death. when a carrier takes to himself a spouse, she invariably accompanies him on his wanderings, and when the children are born, they are trained and brought up to it in like manner.
let me picture to you a queensland carrier, his enormous waggon filled with station stores or wool and drawn by perhaps twenty stalwart bullocks, creeping across these treeless plains. the carrier himself rides on a pony beside the team, his wife and children being snugly perched on the summit of the load. in a coop under the waggon are the family poultry, a cattle dog runs beside it, and a flock of goats, following in the wake, completes the party. as soon as they halt for the night the bullocks are outspanned, the wife fixes up camp, the poultry are released, and the goats come bleating up to be milked. so day in, day out; year in, year out; from waterhole to waterhole, these lonely folk travel the country, careless of the outside world, their only roof the heavens, and their only interest the price of loading, their families, and their teams.
talking of carriers and telephones reminds me of an amusing incident which occurred during our stay at oondooroo.
the wool shed, where carriers waiting for loading usually camp, is situated seven miles from the head station,, but is connected with it by telephone to the manager’s office. on one occasion a carrier made his appearance at the caretaker’s quarters, and requested with great fertility of language to be told why he was not permitted to depasture his bullocks in the usual paddocks. before he entered the room the caretaker had been holding converse with the squatter through the telephone, and only turned from it to ascertain the bullocky’s business. having received his answer, that gentleman stated his intention of wiping the dirt with that squatter, of banging him up and down creation till his own mother wouldn’t know him; then mounting his horse, he set off for the head station to argue matters there, never dreaming that the squatter had overheard the whole conversation through the instrument.
the carrier met no one on the way, and as he had never seen or heard of either a telegraph or a telephone, his surprise may be imagined when he was met at the office door by the owner, with the remark, ‘so you’re the man who’s going to wipe the dirt with me, to bang me up and down creation till my own mother wouldn’t know me, eh? well, what d’you want?’ there never was anybody so dumb-foundered as that bullocky; he couldn’t understand it at all. when he found out how he’d been tricked, it is said he went out and hired two men and a boy to kick him.
oondooroo is owned by messrs. ramsay brothers & hodgson, and covers an area of 663,680 acres. as i have said already, it carries about 250,000 sheep, also 1 50 cattle, and 540 well bred horses. the grasses and timbers are similar to those of sesbania. the owners are splendid fellows — better it would be impossible to find — and hospitable to the last degree.
and really, the hospitality shown by owners of stations to passing travellers is little short of marvellous. hardly a night passes without some stranger being the station’s guest. no questions are asked, he simply rides or drives up to the door, says his name is — we’ll say brown, and that he comes from hughenden and is going to winton. if he looks anything like a gentleman he is immediately told to turn his horses loose into the paddock, and is invited into the house himself. otherwise he goes to the men’s hut, where the living is perhaps rougher, but the welcome is just the same. next day he passes on his way again, unless he prefers to spell a day or two, in which case “he is cordially invited to remain and make himself at home for as long as. he pleases. it is a wonderful state of things, and is less often abused than would generally be supposed. leaving oondooroo, we skirted the base of the hills of the same name, and reached winton, or, as it is often called, the city of the plains, this is as curious a little township as will be found in the length and breadth of australia. situated on the western river — a tributary of the diamintina, it is a hundred and forty three miles from hughenden, and about four hundred, as the crow flies, from the sea coast. as one approaches it, it has the appearance of a forlorn little collection of galvanised iron and wooden buildings, standing all alone out on the dreary plains. but in spite of its humble outward appearance, its people are not behind the times. they are believers in winton at any rate.
when we arrived, a race meeting was in progress. now if there is one sport more than another of which queensland people — and i may say australians generally — are fond, it is horse racing. every man in western queensland who can scrape enough money together, owns a race horse, and those who can’t afford the luxury, endeavour to spoil the games of those who can. i don’t mean to infer, for a moment, that the majority are dishonest — far from it. but the racing code is lax, and over and over again, we met men who made it their sole business, from year’s end to year’s end, to tramp the bush with a likely animal, practically living on what he earned them, either by winning, or what is technically termed, ‘running stiff.’ these men are called forties, otherwise spielers or blacklegs.
when a township race meeting occurs, almost every station in the vicinity sends a horse or two to compete, with a contingent of enthusiastic backers, and party feeling runs high.
on this particular occasion it was a roasting day, something like a hundred and ten in the shade, and as a result the booth keepers were doing a roaring trade. nine out of every ten men would have been ashamed to have left the course sober. ‘there’s such a thing as honour,’ they would have said; but for all that, the racing was excellent, and a better day’s sport could not have been desired.
winton is one of the youngest of the far western towns. fifteen years ago it consisted of a single house, a grog shanty, built half of rough-hewn timber and half of calico, where fiery rum was dispensed to the traveller out of a tin pannikin at the moderate charge of one shilling per drink. it was a place where the face of a white woman was never seen, and the remembrance of one almost forgotten; where the thought of a policeman was only a hideous nightmare, and the name of a magistrate but an excuse for blasphemy, and more rum to drink to his destruction. fighting, cursing, and drinking, were the order of the day, and the next hotel, save the mark, was a hundred and fifty miles to the eastward, with none to the west. at that time all the country, for hundreds of miles round, was being rushed by stockmen, anxious to secure as much land as their stock and the laws would allow them. it was indeed a golden age for publicans.
now all is changed. winton with its 625 inhabitants is a peaceful and orderly town, with broad streets, half a dozen hotels, pretty bright-eyed barmaids, drinks only sixpence, and real glass tumblers to drink them out of, a newspaper, church, school, divisional board hall, court house, racing and tennis clubs, and last, but by no means least, two banks, presided over by young gentlemen who lead the fashions and treat the other inhabitants with that haughty condescension peculiar to the australian bank official. the good old times would certainly seem to have disappeared.
winton has only a small history, no ruins, and but few traditions, but it has one character, a portly storekeeper, who never fails to button-hole the newly arrived traveller, while in a hoarse whisper he repeats the cabalistic words, ‘when did you come in? when are you going out? and did you see any teams [carriers] on the road?’
from winton we struck out for boulia, a still smaller township two hundred and forty miles further west. it was another dreary journey and in other ways a most unpleasant one, for although along the track grass was plentiful enough, water was terribly scarce, and it became a matter of grave doubt whether we should ever reach our destination, much less push on to the south australian border as we hoped to do. but after a fortnight’s constant travelling (for owing to the state of the country and the condition of our horses we were unable to do more than average fifteen miles a day), we reached it, only to find it what it had been described to us as, the most god-forsaken dried-up hole in all australia.
boulia is a hot place! the inhabitants can’t gainsay that, and indeed they don’t try to; for it is their favourite boast that the tropic of capricorn runs down their main street. but this, like most of their assertions, is not founded on fact, though it is quite near enough to be first cousin to the truth. for its existence, boulia depends solely on the great pastoral properties which surround it, some of which exceed 3,000 square miles in extent. her population is a hundred and one, and it would break the heart of the whole district if that one were to die.
immediately on arrival, we instituted inquiries as to the likelihood of our being able to get on to the border, but the reports were of the most dismal nature possible. stations were being abandoned in all directions, stock were travelling in search of food and water, and there was nothing but death and starvation to be met with on all sides. everyone united in advising us to turn back, and so we were reluctantly compelled to retrace our steps. it was a bitter disappointment!
beyond the knowledge of having failed in what we started to carry out, it was dreary work returning over the same ground, and a journey of sad sights as well, for an australian drought is a horror that must be experienced to be appreciated. i should perhaps not be beyond the mark in describing every mile of the journey as a graveyard of dead stock, cattle, horses, and sheep. the carrier’s business was practically suspended, and in consequence the tracks were almost deserted.
sixteen days later we reached winton, only again to leave it behind us, this time to pass east via hospitable vindex, to maneroo creek, thence on to the thompson river. about here the aspect of the country changes; the treeless plains of which we had grown so tired give place to scrubby ridges, and mulga begins to thrust itself upon the notice. a curious tree this mulga (acacia doratoxylon) being of medium height, of a grey hue, with angular branchlets, linear leaves, these latter slightly curved with an oblong point. its leaves make excellent food for stock, and will fatten when everything else fails, but its sap is poisonous to the last degree.
one thing was becoming painfully evident: we were now getting fairly into the region of the drought, which was destined, though fortunately we did not know it, to become far worse before we were done with it.
our horses were bearing up bravely, and we continually congratulated ourselves on having retained cyclops and polyphemus, in preference to the other two. but though they were lasting so well, we had still to take extraordinary care of them, for herbage was growing scantier and scantier every day. the first failure of their strength, we knew, would mean the failure of everything. for this reason, whenever we chanced upon a waterhole round which good grass existed, we would camp a day or two and give them an opportunity of recouping themselves. it was the only way to keep body and soul together in them.
leaving maneroo creek behind us, we crossed the thompson river, over its dry sandy bed, to find ourselves face to face with a tiny township, perched on a slight elevation. this, our chart told us, was arrilalah or forest grove. but why called forest grove we could not understand, for there was not a tree within a couple of miles of it.
only a short while ago this was a thriving township, with perhaps a couple of hundred inhabitants, the usual number of stores and inevitable public-houses. then longreach, the terminus of the central railway from rockhampton, sprang into existence, and arrilalah’s day was over. its inhabitants deserted it, bit by bit it dropped out of the race, until, as at the time of our passing, it was little more than a township of the dead. later on it was described to us as ‘a place of dead dogs, broken-down grog shanties, and one drunkard who for old sake’s sake sat in the dust of the main street offering to fight creation!’
the same night we struck the thompson river again, at westlands old station, where we camped a day, prior to striking across country for the head station and bimerah creek. for several reasons we were anxious to pursue this course: the chief was, because we should be permitted an opportunity of seeing a successful artesian bore in full working order; the next, because by going across country instead of following the river down, we should cut off nearly fifty miles. this latter was a great consideration.
westlands station, the property of the darling downs & western land company, is a wonderful property, covering an area of 750 square miles and carrying at the time of our visit nearly 150,000 sheep, 200 head of cattle, and 400 horses. the artesian bore has proved an immense success, giving out no less than 60,000 gallons a day of splendid water, a boon the value of which cannot be over-rated in this thirsty land. the temperature of the water on arriving at the surface from a depth of 3,000 feet, is 162 degrees. hot enough, goodness knows.
there can be no possible doubt that these bores are destined to prove the salvation of queensland. as a squatter once said to me, ‘overcome the water difficulty, and the grazing capabilities of western queensland cannot be surpassed ; even the far-famed darling downs must sink into insignificance compared with it.’ artesian bores would seem to be the solution of the problem, for they now extend the whole length of the colony from north to south, from marathon station, flinders river, to hungerford on the border of new south wales. in time they will alter the whole face of the country, and from being one of the most arid spots on earth will make queensland a second paradise.
two of the principal bores in the colony are the blackall, 1,666 feet deep, and yielding 300,000 gallons per diem, and the charlesville, 1,380 feet deep, and yielding 3,000,000 gallons per diem.
leaving westlands, we carried out our intention and struck across country, hoping to make bimerah creek before dusk. it was not pleasant travelling, on account of the heat, the glare, and the flies; but hour after hour we toiled patiently on, wondering why the land-marks described to us did not come into view. the sun sank on to the horizon, then disappeared altogether, but still no sign of the creek timber appeared. it began to grow dark, and still no sign. we became uneasy: evidently we had missed our way somehow (it was not to be wondered at), and now where we were it was impossible to say. the situation grew very serious, and at length, dead beat, we resolved to turn out, fix up camp, and try our luck again next morning. as we cast about for a spot, our hearts were rejoiced by the sight of a fire glimmering out of a clump of trees far ahead of us. we struggled on to it, to find that our luck had directed us to a boundary rider’s tent, where we were made heartily welcome.
he was a quaint character, our host. his whole life had been spent in the bush, and the greater part of it as a boundary rider, the most desolate of all lives. located at the back of the run, he sees only his sheep, from month’s end to month’s end, save when he rides into the head station for rations, or to report disasters. his duties are to look after his sheep and to mend his fences. no wonder he is glad to see visitors, and we flattered ourselves that we were good visitors — both good and hungry.
during the evening he evinced a great liking for the lugubrious pickwick, who sat gazing into the fire with the professional expression of a first class mute upon his face. he said he’d like to have him. we were delighted — we wanted nothing better than a good excuse to give him away.
we went to bed, and immediately mr. pickwick began to feel desolate; he moaned softly, he whimpered sadly, and then he howled outright. we soothed him with advice and boots; but nothing would quiet him. at length, for the sake of peace, we were compelled to take him out of the tent, and tie him to a tree in the distance, where he bellowed melodiously the whole night through. in the morning we prepared to leave him behind us, but our host emphatically said, ‘if you do, i’ll shoot him!’ that was always the way; no one coveted pickwick when they got to know him.
as soon as light was in the sky, we harnessed up, got our bearings, and set out on our way again, foolishly omitting to refill our water-bags before starting.
it was a roasting day, and our route lay across an enormous burnt — up plain where the sun glared down with pitiless fury. owing to the scarcity of grass our horses had had next to nothing to eat, and were now well-nigh knocked up. for this reason, and to lighten the load, we set ourselves for a long tramp. the dreariness of that march surpasses description. because we had brought no water we grew terribly thirsty before we had gone a couple of miles, and thought of drinks criminally wasted in bygone extravagant days. but this, though edifying, was not satisfying.
pool after pool, or rather mudhole after mud-hole, we explored without success. our thirst was terrible. many hours went by, the sun rose to his meridian, and began his descent, then far ahead of us we saw the timber line of the creek, and half hidden among the foliage, the white roofs of bimerah head station. it was a joyful moment, and we set up a cheer, resolving that, come what might, we would never be foolish enough to embark on a day’s march again without first seeing that the water-bag was filled.
round bimerah the drought existed in all its worst forms; indeed, anything more frightful than the state of the country in this district could not be imagined. dried-up grass, dried-up waterholes, dead cattle and sheep, was the picture that accompanied us unceasingly. round every waterhole hundreds of miserable sheep lay bogged, too weak to extricate themselves and every moment growing weaker. but what was misery for the animals was paradise for the crow, for as soon as he saw an unfortunate beast incapable of moving, down he flopped and picked his eyes out while alive, and besides the eyes, great holes in the back and sides. it was not only hopeless but useless to attempt to give the poor animals aid, for they were bogged in numbers that defied one. even if one did get them out it would but be to let them starve on land.
so shutting our eyes to such horrors, we crossed the horse paddock and drew up at the station door, where we were made cordially welcome, and joyfully accepted the manager’s hospitable invitation to spend a week with him, and give our jaded animals a chance to pick up.
