adavale — the bulloo river — emudilla — jim collins — comongin — corrobboree — bushed — gouryanah — cowley plains
for a bush township, adavale is a pretty-enough place. at any rate it is a decided improvement on stonehenge, jundah, or windorah; though, how people can ever bring themselves to live in any of them will always remain a matter of mystery to me. we had, long before, arranged that our letters should be sent here, consequently we had quite a budget to receive. it was like resuming touch with the world to look once more upon english postage stamps, and for an hour we were absorbed in the fascination of home news.
leaving adavale, we departed over a rough and dry stage towards the bulloo river. after the first few miles, however, the appearance of the country began to improve. well-filled waterholes became more frequent, and the grass was not only more abundant, but beautifully green. it was like a new earth, and, after a few camps (for we did not hurry ourselves), our horses became like difierent animals. cyclops carried his banana-like tail with a new air, while polyphemus arched his neck like a two hundred guinea brougham horse; even mr. pickwick looked a little less doleful under the changed circumstances.
some of our camps were perfectly charming: overhanging trees, good water for cooking and bathing, and plenty of grass, not only for the horses, but to make the most luxurious of beds. what could we have wished for more? birds and fish were abundant, and here, for the first time, we met with the yellow crested white cockatoo, the native companion, the bower, the apostle, the butcher, and the bell bird. all are unique in their own difierent fashions.
the native companion, is a tall, slender, grey bird, something after the style of a heron, and is quite a character in his way. it is an amusing sight to watch a number of them playing on the sand-banks at dusk. they march up and down, advance, wheel, and execute the most intricate and involved manoeuvres, with all the precision and aplomb of trained soldiers. they even dance quadrilles and lancers with wonderful accuracy, and their performances on the pearly grey sands, among the long shadows of approaching night, have a most weird and picturesque effect. fortunately for their own sakes, they are useless for food, but as pets they are much prized.
the bower bird, though a smaller fellow, is not behind his friend in point of interest. among other things, he is an architect of no mean order, inasmuch as he builds for himself a bewitching little bower of grass and sticks. this is his treasure house, where he collects every bright and glittering object that attracts his fancy, particularly stones from the dry creek beds, amusing himself with them as a child plays with glittering beads. for this reason valuable gems may not unfrequently be discovered in his bower, their brilliance having caught his eye when on the search for playthings.
the butcher bird somewhat resembles an english thrush, and possesses the power of imitating any animal, with a ventriloquial effect truly remarkable. the apostle bird’s peculiarity is always to move about with eleven of his fellows. and the bell bird the bushman has good reason to know on account of his note being an exact imitation of a horse bell, which, when searching in thick scrub for horses, is apt to be terribly misleading.
the country along the bulloo is both well timbered and well grassed, mulga, gidea, yapunya, and gum trees being most en evidence.
our first station down the river was emudilla, an out station of gigantic milo. we found them in the midst of shearing, and too busy to attend to strangers. the manager’s hut was a miserable place, not fit for a dog to live in, and after camping the night there, we headed away along the bulloo for comongin.
crossing a lightly timbered plain, about five or six miles from the station, we met with a curious experience. jogging quietly along in the eye of the burning sun, wishing to goodness we were anywhere but where we were, our horses suddenly came to a dead stop before something huddled up on the ground. our first impulse was to jump out and see what it was, but before we had time to move it rose, and we beheld the most weird and unearthly creature ever dignified with the name of man. he was of about middle age, very tall and thin, his clothes hung in rags about him, and to all appearance he was suffering from a terrible attack of ophthalmia, combined with a fit of delirium tremens. he rose out of the sand like a spirit of the waste, and confronted us. then in a voice of extraordinary monotony, illustrative of the condition of his mind, he said:
‘now don’t you be afraid of me — have a drink, do! i’m old jim collins, old jim collins, gone a mucker — poor old jim! have a drink, do! lord, but i’m dead broke; you should see the little devils — little green devils with pink eyes that run after me — through the cotton bush singing, “ old jim collins, gone dead broke — gone dead broke.” lord! and to think i’ve got a brother in london, who’s — well, never you mind what he is, but take a drink, do!’
we declined with thanks, having a pretty fair idea of what the stuff was made of, and tried to move forward, but he clung to the wheels, babbling on in the same foolish fashion. ‘lor! you wouldn’t hurt old jim collins, i know! i’m old jim collins — poor old jim, gone dead broke, and chased through the cotton bush by little green devils — little green devils with white legs and pink eyes, and lord! look at’em there, forty thousand million of’em!’ etc. etc.
on our asking where he had come from, he pointed over his shoulder to nowhere in particular, saying — ‘from the dead finish, back there. you’ll take me back, won’t you now? you’ll take me back to the pub. say you will or i’ll pull your livers out! don’t leave me here to die — old jim collins — i’m desperate — lor’! you don’t know what devils have been following me through the bush. take me back to the pub, d’ye hear! or i’ll murder yer. i’m old jim collins,’ etc. etc.
but for more reasons than one, it would have been folly to have taken him back, so, seizing our opportunity, we whipped up and left him, standing hopelessly in the centre of the plain, looking after us. half an hour later, we encountered a bullock team travelling in the same direction; the bullocky promised to keep an eye open for him.
these grog shanties, or ‘dead finishes’ as they are often termed, are the curse of the bush, and in no other colony are they so bad as in queensland. anything like the scenes enacted in them there would not be believed or tolerated in print. but they are of everyday occurrence, and from the fact that they are carried on hundreds of miles from civilisation, no one is the least bit the wiser.
as a rule, the shanty is a rude log or galvanised iron hut, which springs into existence beside the track, at a spot convenient to the surrounding stations. here the shanty-keeper commences his nefarious traffic with very little real stock, the component parts of the various liquors sold being vitriol and kerosene, with a little flavouring mixture thrown in.
owing to its position, it is generally impossible for any station hand, making for civilisation, to avoid passing the door. but woe betide that unfortunate man if he allows himself to be prevailed upon to enter. the following is the usual course of procedure.
we will presume that john brown, of yapunya station, is going to take his holiday in the south. perhaps, as is very likely, he has not been off the station for three years, during which time he has accumulated an amount on the station books equal to perhaps one hundred and fifty pounds. on asking for his cheque, it is given him, with much good advice against the attractions of the ‘dead finishes’ in the neighbourhood. boasting his strength of mind, he saddles his riding and pack horses, and sets off, contented with himself and the world in general. it is a long and dusty journey, and just as he is thinking about camping for the night, the shanty appears in sight. he argues that he cannot possibly harm himself if he pulls up at the door just for one drink — only one. maybe, one of the landlord’s daughters, nieces, or female cousins, catches his eye, and he then remembers that he has not seen a female for three years. he takes just one nip of whisky, and that one, manufactured on the premises, does the business. five minutes later, he has determined just to spend the night there, and to resume his journey in the morning; but in half an hour he is hopelessly incapable, has planked his cheque on the counter, and told the landlord to let him know when it is finished. after that, for many days, he has no knowledge of passing events, and when he comes to his senses, it is only to find himself in the dead house, as the log hut at the rear of the hotel is called, about as near a dead man as he well can be. then, nearly perishing for a drink, he crawls into the bar, to find his cheque finished (or said to be) and his horse and gear the property of the landlord for an additional debt. he is informed that while drunk he stood champagne for every passer-by, and in evidence of the fact, he is shown empty bottles lying freely scattered about the place. in reality he has given the landlord a cheque for one hundred and fifty pounds, in exchange for about five pounds’ worth of doctored liquor! comment is needless!
in order that he shall not carry away with him a bad impression of the place, he is presented with a bottle of manufactured whisky to see him home. with the help of this, he returns to the station a very much sadder — though, i fear, but little wiser — man. this craving for drink reasserts itself at intervals, and every time his cheque grows sufficiently large, it goes the same way as the first. after a big shearing, or a general muster, when numbers of men are abroad in the district, everyone with plenty of money to spend, these back country ‘dead finishes’ are nothing more nor less than little hells. it is a well-known jest with landlords, that they ‘have men earning good wages for them on many of the surrounding properties.’
two days after leaving emudilla we reached comongin, to find them also busy with their shearing. the homestead is built on a little hill, overlooking a lovely lagoon, which teems with fish and wild fowl. this station is a great meeting-place for natives, and we were fortunate enough while there to be permitted an opportunity of witnessing a corrobboree. it was a strange and impressive sight.
viewed by the light of enormous fires, the figures of the dancers, streaked with white paint into the resemblance of skeletons, leaping and bounding in perfect unison under the massive gum trees, to the music of wailing voices and beating drums, produced an effect not easily to be forgotten. one moment they were depicting a bloodthirsty battle, the next a kangaroo hunt, but it was all with the same marvellous precision and accuracy. no trained ballet could have given a better performance, and long after we had retired we could hear them keeping it up with unimpaired vigour. a corrobboree is generally held to celebrate the meeting of old friends after a long parting. it was so on this occasion. unfortunately, however, the same friendly spirit did not animate it throughout, for before the night was over, a sort of donnybrook occurred, and next morning quite a dozen warriors were whining round the station house for shin plaster.
leaving north comongin, we made a two days’ stage down the river to south comongin, camping a night, en route, in a charming nook on the river-bank. beneath the shelter of some of the stateliest old gum-trees i ever remember to have seen.
at south comongin we had an earnest talk with the manager on the prospects of the track further along the bulloo. strangely enough the plenteous rains which had fallen lower down had stopped here, and from the accounts of some of the drovers who had come up from thargomindah, the drought was as severe below this point as in any other part of the country through which we had passed. the manager’s advice to us was to strike due east to a waterhole named gooryanah, thence to bechel creek, and to follow that watercourse down until we could cross on to the warrego river, and so on, via cunamulla, to the new south wales border.
accordingly next morning, after an early breakfast, off we set for gooryanah, where we were told we should find some teams (carriers) camped, the men connected with which would direct us on to cowley plains cattle station, distant some sixty miles. by the directions given us we understood that we ought to strike gooryanah about midday.
our route lay through dense mulga scrub, alternating with patches of open plain, dreary and desolate to the eye, but very comforting from the fact that horse feed was abundant. under a blazing sun we toiled along, keeping a bright look out for the water-hole and the teams, but no sign of either could we see. midday came and went, the afternoon wore on, the sun dropped lower and lower on to the horizon, yet no sign came of what we sought. evidently, once more, something had gone wrong. we fought against the idea, but at length it was to be resisted no longer, and we were again compelled to own ourselves bushed. what was worse, we had been so confident of finding the waterhole and the teams, that we had only brought a little lunch with us. worse still, owing to the heat of the day, our water-bags were well-nigh empty. there was nothing for it but to camp where we were.
all the next day, without food or water, we struggled on; the same agonising symptoms of thirst manifested themselves as on a similar occasion. though we explored every likely spot, not a drop of water could we find, and at last the advisability of killing one of our horses and drinking his blood, in order to sustain life in us, was seriously contemplated. horrible as the idea was, it seemed the only possible way out of the difficulty. we decided, however, to postpone the notion until everything else failed, and just at nightfall, as if to reward us for our endurance, we came upon a small creek, and following that down, upon a still smaller hole of thick muddy water, in which innumerable animals lay dead. our delight was unbounded, and, with our usual sagacity, we said we had struck gooryanah.
while the long’un took the tired horses across the creek in search of grass, i fixed up camp. it was an almost useless proceeding, for we had nothing to eat, and even our supply of tea was well-nigh exhausted. taking the billy down to the water, i was in the act of filling it, when i heard horses brushing through the bushes. on looking up i found a stockman and a black boy approaching me. they had been out hunting for horses, they said, and were going to camp near us. i told them of our troubles, and described our good fortune in striking gooryanah in such an unexpected fashion. ‘striking gooryanah!’ said the stockman; ‘this ain’t gooryanah. you’re close on fifty miles from it. you’ve come back on your tracks; you’re near north comongin, half a mile from where you camped four nights ago. you’ve been going round with a vengeance.’
this was news bad enough to break a man’s heart. here we were fifty miles back on our tracks, with worn-out horses, no food, and all that distance to make up again. if it hadn’t been for the two men watching me, i believe i should have sat down and cried. but if our luck was so bad, it was indeed fortunate that we had met these men, otherwise god alone knows how far we might not have wandered. what was still more fortunate, they were able to spare us some damper and jerked beef.
a worse night’s camp than that i do not remember. the night was oppressively hot, our disappointment would not let us sleep, and the mosquitoes would have forced bad language out of the pope himself. we tossed and tumbled, swore and scratched, half the night.
next day there was nothing for it but to make the long stage for gooryanah. it was an awful, awful journey: red sand, millions of flies that crawled into one’s eyes, mouth, and ears at the rate of hundreds per minute, a heat in the mulga like the blast of the furnace doors of sheol, tired horses, and a blissful uncertainty about our destination. it was not cheerful, but it was that or nothing.
at length at the end of fourteen weary hours of crawling, we opened out on to a plain which possessed all the characteristics of gooryanah, and here we alighted, thoroughly knocked up. letting the horses go, we camped under a tope of trees beside a dried-up waterhole. no sign of water, however, could be seen anywhere, and after a brief rest we agreed to separate in search of it, one going west and the other east. at the end of two hours i returned unsuccessful, but when i had been in camp half an hour or so, the long’un put in an appearance, with his water-bag and billy-can full of a thick mixture which might once (i say once advisedly) have been water. he had procured it from a hole nearly three miles away.
jerked beef, a wedge of damper, and tea, thick with mud, constituted our evening meal. while we eat it, we criticised the weather. there was every appearance of a heavy thunderstorm. as night set in, these signs increased. enormous clouds rolled into the sky, banking up one on the top of the other, till not a star was visible. the wind dropped altogether, and an unearthly stillness reigned. like frightened sheep we huddled together, talking in hushed voices, and wondering when the performance would commence. then, suddenly, there was a flash of lightning sharp as a razor edge, and next moment a clap of thunder that seemed fairly to shake the earth. another and another followed, until it was playing all round us. flash, bang, rattle and rumble: it was for all the world like an enormous battle. now and again great trees in the scrub beyond the plain fell with awful crashes, and we thanked our stars that we had pitched our camp in the open instead of in the forest. the storm lasted all night, but save a few drops, hardly any rain fell. towards daylight the clouds boomed off, and another weary day began.
whether it was the water we had drunk or the food we had eaten i cannot say, but at any rate, as soon as we got up we were both horribly sick. for my own part i never felt so wretched in my life. my one thought was gratitude that my boots were laced on tight, otherwise i truly believe i should have got rid of them too, so complete was the clearance. for nearly half an hour this nausea continued, until it seemed impossible for us to travel; but we reflected that to remain where we were spelt starvation, and starvation spells death, so willy nilly we were compelled to hitch up and proceed.
three or four miles further on we came upon the real gooryanah, where we found, as we had been told, half a dozen carriers’ teams camped round the waterhole. they directed us aright, and at the end of another long day’s stage, during which we took it in turns to stop and be ill, we drove into the horse paddock and pulled up before the verandah of cowley plains head station.
