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 Foreword
The current day resurgence of Bush Poetry began in the late
nineteen eighties in Tamworth, N.S.W. As an infant group
struggling to find its way in a world dominated by country music,
the bush poets began performing to small crowds of interested
bystanders at impromptu gatherings. With the advent of the
Imperial Hotel Competition and the Longyard breakfasts, rapid
expansion of both audiences and poets started this modern day
snowball. Almost without exception every up and coming poet was
overawed by the fantastic feeling of mateship that transpired
amongst the group and each newcomer was blown away by this unheard
of art called 'Performance Poetry.'
This was the era when cult 'legends' were being made. Popularity
of hero status was being piled on those performers who had that
special 'something' that the ever-hungry audiences were craving.
One in a hundred poets would be admitted to this elite group.
It was also a time of learning and those that didn't or wouldn't
strive to perfect this new trade were soon swept aside. I first
met Merv some fifteen months ago at a bush poetry function in
Bundaberg. He quietly asked me for an opinion on his performance
and gave me a book of his verse about a character called 'Uncle
Jim.' I passed on some pointers and was pleased to see an
immediate attempt to incorporate these suggestions into his act.
Merv has an unquenchable thirst for improvement and his ability to
use constructive criticism to his advantage is admirable indeed.
An avid student at writing workshops, Merv's natural talent is
only too evident in his book, 'In Days Gone By' which I thoroughly
recommend to all lovers of genuine, from the heart, Australia.
One
in a hundred! Merv welcome aboard.
Bob 'The Larrikin' Miller
Poets Corner
Mungar Qld.
THE
BEGINNING
Any vivid recollections of London pre-war
years escape my mind as, having been born in Kenly in the year
1906, most of it occurred through my childhood years. I was the
first and only child to my parents Frederick and Harriet who ran a
small mixed grocery store. On reflection it's ironic how one does
not get any choice in the name one is to carry the rest of one's
life. Though, in my case, Lawrence Charles, which my dear mum and
dad had seen fit to dub me with, would only stick with me for the
early part of my life. I later preferred the name Charlie, which I
would be dubbed with, on the recommendation it would blend more
with the character of the country I would one day take on in life.
To recall as far back as one can remember
of childhood days is a daunting task, though given time it amazes
me just what does come to mind. One distinct memory is that of a
dear old lady whom I caused to call out in horror and collapse in
my father's shop. I had been given a rather dashing fireman's
helmet with a face shield for a present and had wandered in behind
the counter of the shop to see father. Being only a little tyke at
the time, all one could see as a customer, on the other side, was
the top of the helmet and face shield bobbing up and down behind
the counter, while the rest of me was obscured. The poor old dear
had been browsing, trying to make up her mind what she was in need
of, then turned to see the bizarre spectacle and took fright. She
let out a terrifying scream and collapsed onto the floor. It must
have been an ordeal for one so young to remember and for the old
lady too. I guess.
Before the war broke out father had sold
the mixed business and purchased a poultry farm on the Isle of
Thanet in Kent. It must have been one of his loves in life as he
seemed to enjoy breeding and raising fowls, even when it was
interrupted by the war he would continue to pursue it again.
One always has expectations of growing up
and sharing much of his life with his mum, but I never had the
privilege. Mine would die in childbirth with her second child in
1911. It was a bitter blow to my father and the prospect of being
a sole parent was a daunting task. I went to live with my aunt and
uncle, who lived in Penge, and attended a school just across the
road.
In 1914 England entered into
the First World War and life in this country changed dramatically.
Father joined the armed forces and I would only see him
occasionally over the next couple of years. My aunt would sit
anxiously for hours, listening to reports of the war's progress,
which was broadcast over the radio. So many of England's finest
young men lost their lives in that terrible conflict. The most
impressive event that comes to my mind of those turbulent years
was the bombing of London by the Zeppelins used by the Germans.
They had torpedo like bombs that were dropped as they flew
overhead, causing horrific destruction to buildings and loss of
life. I remember the tremendous explosions and the shattering of
glass as they fell near to our home. On one particular raid over
London I recall a large crowd gathered and folk were looking up at
one of the large balloons flying overhead. Suddenly it was hit by
ground fire and exploded, breaking the under carriage in half,
resulting in the whole thing exploding into a ball of fire, which
fell hurtling to the ground. The crowd cheered to see its demise,
though what crossed my mind as an eight year old was the terrible
loss of life for those on board.
After the war father related to me, on
the odd occasion, stories of the heroic events of some of the men
whom he fought alongside in France. The men he spoke of included
young lads from Australia, who had told him of a life in the
outback where they raised cattle and horses on large properties
covering thousands of acres. They had left that way of life behind
in search of adventure and a sense of duty to the mother country
only to leave thousands of men, whom they called cobbers, buried
there. These stories aroused my interest in the new colony of
Australia and would, in time, steer my life towards a whole new
adventure.
During the war father remarried and
provided me with a stepmother and, in time, a half brother whom he
called after his own name sake. After those turbulent years some
sort of order came back into our family life as father purchased a
property at Mt Pleasant in Sussex and resumed his love of breeding
poultry. Young Frederick and I were to have an adventurous
excursion one day when I was asked to take him for a walk in one
of the rather ship like perambulators of the time.
Everything had been going quite smoothly
until we tried to negotiate the downward slope of a rather steep
hill. The pram began to pick up momentum and my meager weight was
not enough to act as an anchor and it took off without me. It
raced to the bottom of the hill and upon hitting a rather large
pebble it emptied its contents, including Frederick, onto a pile
of rubble by the side of the road. By the time I caught up with
them, fearing the worst, I saw young Frederick sitting up on top
of the pile saying,
"Coo, coo." I was rather relieved to see that he
obviously had an adventurous side to his nature.
Father had sent me to one of the Public
Schools in the area for my education, though school and I did not
seem to get on very well. My love of practical jokes on school
chums earned me the name of Loony, which I am glad didn't stick.
Father could see that I was unsettled and asked what I wanted to
do with my life, as he was concerned, and in those times one had
to make his own way in life at a rather early age. I reminded him
of the stories he had told me of outback Australia and the time he
accompanied me to Australia House, which had a large mural painted
on the wall. It portrayed canefields, men on horseback working
stock, all set under a large yellow sun and the men wore the
biggest hats I'd ever seen.
"That's what I want to do," I expressed to him. "I
want to work there, ride horses and wear one of those big
hats."
n A Dreadnought scheme for young lads desiring
to go abroad to Australia was available in those years and at
sixteen years of age it appeared the adventure of a lifetime.
Father agreed to my going and as much as it meant saying good-bye
for goodness knows how long the spirit of adventure obscured any
emotions being separated from my family should have displayed.
With two pounds in my pocket, given to me
by father, passage, even though steerage the cheapest fare, and
new friends to travel with, I was seaward bound on the ship 'Diogenes,'
and to the port of Sydney, Australia.
THEY SAY
It's England that I leave behind;
the island of my birth.
A nation of the brave and free
and salt of all the earth.
"Unpatriotic!" You may cry
for leaving her behind,
but at just sixteen years of age
a lad's things on his mind.
They say in the new Colony
a man can make his mark.
High mountains, plains and deserts there,
tall gums and ironbarks.
They say that sheep and cattle roam
in outback Station runs
and miners fight to keep their rights
with barricades and guns.
They say green cane fields fill the North
while vineyards grace the south.
At least that's what the rumours say
passed 'round by word of mouth.
The truth I guess is locked in time,
though waiting's kind of tough.
My ship soon berths at Sydney Cove
I'll find out soon enough.
A NEW LIFE
Steerage was not the greatest way to
travel, but it gave me the opportunity to meet other lads who were
also under the same scheme and headed for Australia. We were
crammed into six bunk cabins and one could hear the noise of the
ships propellers powering the ship through the heavy seas. A
Scottish lad and I became rather well acquainted on the voyage and
his name was none other than Jock. It was Jock who introduced me
to my first cigarette, as well as a few other bad habits, and it
became obvious that he would do well for himself in this new
country. He talked me into buying a rather good looking tweed
suit, which he said a chap would need to wear when landing in the
new country, and relieved me of thirty shillings of my two pound
fortune.
Two days out from Cape Town we ran into a
hurricane that put the wind up most of the boys. We were told not
to open the portholes, but one couldn't help but take a peek out,
with the expectation of seeing tremendous waves buffeting the
ship. Instead, the sea looked as if a large knife had cut the tops
off the expected waves. The effect was caused by the winds blowing
across it with such great force, which also caused the ship to
tilt greatly to one side. Then, for a short while it went calm, as
if there had never been any sign of a storm. Within minutes
though, the winds had regained their fury. It was later explained
to me that the lull had been the eye of the hurricane.
For some forty hours the liner held its
own as the Captain maneuvered the ship in line with the winds,
which would constantly push the ship miles off course, until the
hurricane finally abated. It was only then the seas began to
swell, while every now and then the ship's propellers would lift
out of the sea and make a horrendous noise, terrifying one of the
younger lads. He huddled up beside me, nervously inquiring as to
the possibilites of us sinking. Upon coming on deck we saw a
Whaler, not more than five hundred yards from us. It had been
through the same storm and one could only imagine how they must
have fared, as the liner compared to it was gigantic. All aboard
gave them three almighty cheers and they responded in return.
My initial glimpse of the Australian
continent was the coast near Albany on its southern perimeters. I
had envisioned a land covered with mountains and my first
impression was one of disappointment, but as I looked inland I
make out a range of mountains in the distance.
"If it's all like this," I whispered, "it'll do
me."
The arrival of our Ship at Sydney harbour, in my mind, drew no
comparison to what the mural had portrayed at Australia House, and
it was a bit of a let down. For the three days our ship lay at
berth in Sydney harbour, there was no sign of sunshine as it
rained constantly. I was informed, though, by a man working the
wharves that it was well needed as things had been extremely dry.
By the end of the third day it had begun to finally clear and I
was amazed at the number of horse driven drays lined up along the
wharves, all being loaded with merchandise, unloaded from various
ships.
We were all gathered together and taken
into Sydney to a rather large building where we were given our
train fares for the trip to the Experimental Farm at Cowra. The
trip through the Blue Mountains was breathtaking and I recall
sticking my head out of the carriage window and watching the old
steam engine working its way up the steep gradients, bellowing
black smoke high into the air. I had never seen a sunset look so
magnificent as I did that evening and how it faded beyond the
mountains splashing the most beautiful colours across the horizon.
Arrival at Cowra saw us taken to the
Experimental Farm where we were assigned to barrack-like
accommodation, with two to a cabin. Here we were taught
rudimentary farming skills that would enable us to obtain jobs on
various farms throughout the districts of New South Wales. One day
a few of us lads were becoming acquainted with picks and shovels,
working on a ditch, when one of the Australian overseers walked
over and expressed sarcastically that we looked like a lot of
chickens scratching around in the dirt. Our introduction to to
Aussie humour.
My loyalty to a cobber, who shared my
cabin, was put to the test on one occasion when one of the lads on
the farm, a well known bully, took a set on him and goaded him
into a blue. After a bit of pushing and shoving and a lot of
accusing I stepped in.
"Why don't you pick on someone your
own size?" I suggested.
He willingly obliged and hit me on the chin with a good right. We
got into a scuffle and he somehow got a headlock on me that put me
in a rather hopeless position.
"Do you give!" he bellowed.
As I could see no way out of the situation I swallowed my pride
and replied,
"Yeah, I give."
My cobber reckoned I was a decent sort of a bloke for sticking up
for him, even if I did lose. My time at the farm only lasted for a
couple of weeks as I was assigned to a farm near Mudgee, which was
to be my first place of employment.
THE BULLY
Some blokes they fancy in their minds they're tougher than the
rest,
But mostly they're just bully boys and nothing but a pest.
Most take a set on weaker men who don't know how to fight;
This happened to a mate of mine. I'll tell you of his plight.
'Twas in a paddock down the back while working lucerne hay;
My mate and I were loading stooks upon a horse drawn dray.
The Super gave my mate the job to drive it to the shed,
Though Thumper Thomas intervened and grabbed the reins instead.
I saw my mate, a plucky lad, then try to take a stand,
But Thumper hit him in the mouth with his great hairy hand.
He didn't stand a chance with him as he was far too small;
I stood between the two of them to stop an all out brawl.
"Get lost you squirt!" the bully yelled. 'Twould be my
mate's demise.
"Get lost yourself," was my reply. "Try someone
your own size."
He took me at my word it seems and hit me with a right;
It landed fair square on my chin, I thought it was goodnight.
Then Thumper put a headlock on and things were looking grim.
"You give!" he cried. "You had enough!" Was
all I heard from him.
'Twas little I could really do, but forfeit my poor pride.
"I give," I said, "I've had enough. I guess I'll
let it ride."
The bully Thomas walked away and gloated as they do;
He had no mind to drive the dray, but only sought a blue.
Old Thumper might have won his fights, though when it's said and
done.
He'd never win a mate in life - so they were all he won.
LIFE AROUND MUDGEE
With my few meagre belongings I once
again found myself sitting in a railway carriage, this time
heading back through Bathurst to Lithgow. Here I disembarked and
caught a connecting train northward through the town of Mudgee to
my final destination, Mt Frome.
It was a small siding and it soon became
apparent to me that no one was coming to meet me, as there was not
a soul in sight. I wandered over to the post office and small
store to ask for directions to the property to which I had been
told to report to. The gentleman in charge, a Mr. Rope, told me to
follow the rail line northwards until sighting a large shed on the
left hand side with a small dwelling behind it and he thought that
should be the place I was looking for.
Nervously I walked up onto the verandah
of the small cottage and began to knock on the door. A thin wiry
sort of chap answered, introducing himself as the property
manager. Reg, as he wished to be called, told me I should have
waited in town as he had been too busy to meet me and Mr. Rope
would have put me up until he had the opportunity to come and get
me. Anyway, I was there and he began to show me around, explaining
what would be required of me. Reg apparently was managing the
place for the owner, who lived in Sydney, and was engaged in the
daily running of the small mixed farming venture of which the main
crop was lucerne hay.
My chores on the place included the
milking of two house cows first thing of a morning, along with the
ploughing of paddocks which was done by a horse drawn team. The
same team was used to cut the lucerne and rake it into rows, ready
for it to be loaded onto a spring cart designed to carry large
quantities at a time. One particular incident that comes to mind
was that of bringing the loaded wagon back to the hay shed to be
stored. A dry creek bed had to be negotiated along the route and
the horses had balked in the creek bed bottom. One mostly drove
the team by sitting up on top of the hay and having decided to
show them who was boss I gave them a mighty flick of the reins
down across their rumps. They took off with such a jerk that they
broke the bellyband and traces, upending the cart in the process,
and dumped me under the load of hay. Disoriented, my efforts to
dig my way through the dark found my exit blocked by the floor of
the wagon. Trying to find my bearings, I began digging in the
opposite direction. To my relief daylight came into view once
again, but I was now confronted with walking all the way back to
the cottage and having to relay the incident to Reg.
My fear of getting a dressing down was
fortunately unfounded as my tale was met with a burst of laughter.
Reg obviously saw the funny side of the episode. There was no
doubt about it. He was a decent sort of boss, who on so many
occasions was only too happy to help a new chum like me become
acquainted with life in this new country. The cottage we lived in
wasn't much to look at, but it was home and Reg taught me how to
cook various feeds, which prior to that saw my skills in the
kitchen as rather limited. In truth they still were. Most
Saturdays we would go into Mudgee in the sulky, but as Reg wasn't
always fussed on going in, I bought myself a pushbike and would
ride in on my own. Having made a few cobbers over the months I had
been in the Mudgee district, we often sat on Saturday nights in
the town Cafe, which had a piano, and engaged for hours in a good
old sing-a-long .
On other occasions we'd watch American
cowboy and Indian movies, which were silent in those days.
Sometimes I would ride one of the property's ponies to dances held
at Mt Frome. Mr Rope's daughter Ivy had taken my fancy, but my
terrible shyness made it impossible for me to even get within
cooee of her. My reluctance always found me staring at her across
the dance floor and though it was obvious she felt something for
me my shyness made sure I never knew just how much.
My seventeenth birthday was spent at Mt
Frome and in all I had now spent some eighteen months with Reg.
Then one day he received a letter from the owners advising him the
place had been sold and we would have to look elsewhere for work.
At first it was a bitter pill to swallow, for the thought of
losing Reg as a boss had me at a loss. You see, he had become more
than a boss to me, as over a period of time we had become what
blokes out here called ridgy didge mates. It had been Reg who had
suggested giving my first name, Lawrence, the flick. He thought I
should stick with Charlie, as Lawrence might not sit too well with
some of the hard bush cases I was sure to come in contact with -
might save a few bloody noses as well.
He said he'd keep in touch, and his last
remarks were:
"You know Charlie, for a pommy kid, your not a bad sort of a
bloke. You're not a shirker, 'cause you don't mind putting your
back into a job, and you'll do all right in the end."
The thought of Reg's words cheered me up a little, and on top of
that, before he left he had squared up a temporary job with the
neighbour sucker bashing, until I could find something else. I'd
certainly miss him.
Another job become available after about
five weeks, which I was more than happy about, as sucker bashing
wasn't my cup of tea. It had kept me in tucker though and a roof
over my head, with a few shillings to boot. A Jewish family, who
had made a life for themselves on a small mixed farm on the
outskirts of Mudgee, offered me a position helping out around the
farm. Fred was a rather strange name for a Jewish bloke, but
that's what my new boss wanted to be called, and so I obliged.
Anyway, who was I to question his reasons? I'd gone from Lawrence
to Charlie. He had two sons who went by the name of Walter and ...
I can't quite recall the other, but we all called him Puddin'. He,
no doubt, was the way he was on account of his Mum's cooking as
she was the best cook I'd come across for a long time and a real
gem of a lady as well. They also had a daughter with a beautiful
head of red hair who always copped a fair bit of ribbin' from her
brothers.
Most folk grew lucerne on their farms,
and Fred was no exception. It kept me busy, along with other
chores of a general nature, and much of my spare time was spent
the same as before, going to the Cafe, movies and dances.
Sometimes I would think of old England, Father and my half
brother, Frederick, and get a little homesick. Fred and his wife
though treated me just like one of the family, which compensated
for those melancholy moments. The time spent with them was two
good years and an invaluable part of my learning process. Since my
arrival in Sydney some four years previous, I was slowly adjusting
to this new way of life.
Of all the memories, of which there were
many, the most amusing one that comes to mind was the time when a
young city kid had come to spend his school holidays with Fred and
his family. There had been a young grey pony on the place, far too
spirited for any of Fred's kids to master, so fancying myself as a
bit of a horseman by this time I took on the challenge.
After a few busters, I gradually got the hang of his nature and
used him to help me with chores around the farm. The city kid,
seeing me dashing about on him, wanted to get in on the act and
asked if he could have a ride. We were down on the flat by the
creek working, when he made his move and requested if he could
ride him back to the homestead, which was at the top of a long
sloping ridge running down to the flats where we were. My advice
was not to pull on the reins too much as he disliked a tight bit,
the secret,I found, to staying on him.
The city kid though thought he was Banjo
Paterson's Man from Snowy River and went charging up the ridge
doing exactly what I had told him not to. The grey pony then took
control and bolted straight in the direction of the homestead,
ignoring everything in its path. This included one of the old
dairy cows that had been sitting quietly chewing its cud. Having
heard the commotion it went to stand up, but the pony tripped over
its hind leg that caused he and the lad to part company. I can
still see the poor kid hurtling through the air.
A few weeks later, I received a letter
from Reg who was working on a Station between Cowra and Forbes,
suggesting I'd spent enough time on farms and needed to graduate
to Station life. It sounded great to me, as I had always wanted to
see as much of this country as I could, and it offered more money.
Two pounds fourteen shillings and eight pence compared to the one
pound a week and keep I had been used to, as well as a chance to
gain more experience. Fred and his family were sad to see me go,
though wished me all the best, knowing that I needed to find my
own place in this great big country, just as they had. I was so
excited to be on my way to a new adventure, 'Nanami', a 5,000 acre
Station on the Lachlan River.
'NANAMI'
Travelling by train was no new experience
to myself and once again I was heading westward, back towards
Cowra. It fascinated me how one could travel across such vast
distances in this country by means of train, as tracks traversed
it in many directions. After the change over at Lithgow I settled
into a deep sleep and not even the old steam engine blowing its
loud whistle disturbed me for hours.
I must have been looking forward to
meeting Reg again more than I realised, as memories of my
friendship with him flooded through my mind. It wasn't long before
I began to recognize various landmarks as the train approached
Cowra, which instigated a feeling of excitement. Reg had explained
I would need to catch a lift with the mail truck, which ran a
service to Forbes. He knew the driver and had teed it up with him.
I spent the night in Cowra and was up and about early to catch my
lift. The driver was a jovial sort of a bloke and one didn't have
to bother about making conversation as he hardly ever shut up,
though somehow he managed to draw breath through it all.
I guess I had been expecting some grand
entranceway into 'Nanami,' announcing its presence, when the
driver pulled over at a large mailbox and the only grandness was
some small writing identifying the owners.
"This is it cobber," he said, obviously
recognizing some form of disappointment in my facial expression.
"I know Reg is looking forward to seeing you, as he spoke
fairly highly of you son. All the best," and drove off
leaving me standing by the mailbox. It was a fair walk down to the
actual homestead, which was situated a stone's throw from the
Lachlan river, but quite an enjoyable stroll, as it was a very
impressive looking joint surrounded by large trees and built, as
the mail driver had informed me, by convict labour.
Reg had seen me coming and threw out his
bony, but powerful hand, shaking mine and patting me with
comradely blows on the back.
"Good to see you again young
Charlie!" he cried. "How's the world been treating you
son?" It was great to see the tall wiry bushman again and, as
he accompanied me to the workers' barracks where I'd be do The
boss, a French Canadian, apparently knew of my coming and had
suggested I get settled in and shown about the place before being
taken down to meet him. Reg had put a word in for me and on his
say so I'd been given a position of cowboy-butcher. The butchering
side of things would come with hands on experience Reg had
explained to me.
The cowboy side of it included a fairly
mixed range of duties including early morning milking and
separating. The milk and cream were then delivered down to the
main homestead, along with taking the spring cart down to the main
road and mailbox to fetch back the mail before starting working in
the lucerne paddocks. In the hay making season the place employed
anywhere up to fifty to sixty men, whose duties covered such jobs
as mowing and raking, all done with horse drawn teams. They would
form the lucerne into stooks, which would finally be loaded onto
drays, and then taken and formed into large haystacks. It was
rather an art form this haymaking and I earned a reputation at
being the best haystack builder on the place. With some 500 acres
under irrigation it brought in a large part of the yearly income
for the owner. Such a large body of men all had to be fed and I
was kept busy killing up to three or four sheep a day to satisfy
their voracious appetites.
I gained a hell of a lot of experience
working on 'Nanami' and stayed there for some eighteen months. I'd
have been quite content to remain there only for an incident that
occurred concerning a cobber and the way he was treated. Louie was
a Frenchman by birth and had been a ship's engineer for many years
travelling all around the world, until his ship berthed in Sydney.
He'd had enough of the sea faring life and had heard of other
French seaman, who had jumped ship in Sydney, and knew they could
be assured of work with this French Canadian land owner if they
went out to 'Nanami'. So he had acted on their say so and had been
employed on the place as an engineer, caring for the steam driven
pumps that irrigated the lucerne.
Louie and I often went into Gooloogong on
weekends in his sulky drawn by an old grey mare he owned. He, in
fact, was responsible for introducing me to Aussie beer, which
always resulted in our partying on in town until we were pretty
well blithered. We only managed to get back to Nanami' by leaving
the reins on the front of the sulky while the old grey mare, who
knew the worn out track, would take us home.
The incident I had previously mentioned
came about after a freakish storm hit the place one day while I
was working up at the pigsties. It had followed the Lachlan river
down on a five mile front, building in intensity, until it took
its fury out on 'Nanami'. A fellow station hand was working about
twenty yards away from the sties when the wind blew him head over
turkey, dumping him up against one of the fences. That was where
he sat it out, huddled into a ball, while falling branches and
rubbish covered him. I took shelter behind the walls of the
farrowing pens, which were covered with a roof made from hay and
bush poles. Gum and Box trees were being stripped of foliage and
broken like match sticks, some even torn clean out of the ground.
Windmills were thrown to the ground and their heads buried in the
dirt on impact, as if some giant had discarded them like a useless
toy. I could see the pigsty roofs lifting up and down with the
wind, but they somehow managed to stay attached to the buildings.
An old bagman who had been tramping down the driveway, calling in
for rations when it hit, had sought shelter in the sties with me.
As the storm finally moved on down the river, he looked at me and
said in a passive sort of tone, "Bit of a wee squall
lad."
"A wee bit mate," I replied, as
he bid me,
"G'day," and moved on.
After picking the other young lad out
from among the branches by the fence, I went down to survey the
damage elsewhere. Reg was outside the workers barracks or at least
what was left of them. The walls had stood the barrage, as they
were double brick and convict made, but the roof had blown ...
well your guess was as good as mine. The other outbuildings were
either de-roofed, partly demolished or didn't exist anymore. The
old pumping station chimneystacks down by the banks of the river
had toppled over and Louie was surveying the damage to the steam
engine and pumps. The main homestead seemed to have fared through
the storm and had very little damage to it, while all its
occupants had hidden in the ground cellar for protection.
The owners employed an elderly carpenter
from Forbes to repair the damaged buildings and to rebuild those
that needed to be replaced. They had asked for someone to
volunteer as sidekick for him, so I had willingly offered my
services. The incident I had mentioned arose some days later as
Louie was rebuilding the chimnestacks at the pumphouse. Reg came
looking for me and said the owner wanted me immediately down at
the main homestead, as there had been an accident. Louie had
somehow crushed his fingers when a large double block pulley came
down on his hand, resulting in three of his fingers being partly
amputated. The owner asked me to rig up Louie's horse and sulky
and take him into the Forbes hospital for treatment. I questioned
why we could not take one of the three motor vehicles he had in
the sheds. He quickly replied they were needed elsewhere and to
get on with the job.
The trip to town was a slow and painful
journey for Louie, every bump brought excruciating pain. He urged
me to push the old grey mare along, though the poor thing was
older than Louie and I combined and to push it any harder would
have found us both walking the rest of the way. We travelled all
the remaining part of the afternoon and into the night, arriving
at the Forbes hospital about two o'clock in the morning; poor
Louie nearly out of his mind with pain. I couldn't believe that
the owners would put someone through that sort of ordeal when we
could have arrived much earlier by taking one of the motor
vehicles. Louie was hospitalized and his hand operated on, but I
was required to return to the station and carry on helping the
carpenter with his repairs.
He and I got along rather well, as he
often commented on how I seemed to take to carpentry like a duck
does to water. I would learn many skills from him over the coming
weeks, which would on many occasions in future years put a roof
over my head and tucker in my belly. Towards the end of our work
he suggested that I should stay with him, as he was getting on a
bit and in time I would have enough experience and tools together
to take over. I told him I'd think about and would let him know.
Louie spent some five weeks or more in
hospital, before he was released and returned to 'Nanami'. The
incident, along with the refusal of the owner to let us take one
of the motor vehicles had remained on my mind. The lack of
compassion to a bloke, who had been a darn good worker, got right
up my nose. It wasn't the way I thought my cobber should have been
treated. I told Louie I didn't think I could stay here anymore and
he and I agreed to move on. Thanking the old carpenter, I told him
that Louie and I were cobbers and we were moving on and would
stick together. Before I left I thanked my old mate Reg for all he
had done for me. He understood my feelings and expressed how I had
come a long way since our first meeting. Louie and I felt we had
earned a holiday from the bush, so set off to Sydney to see how
the other half lived.
A REST IN THE CITY
Good old New South Wales rail was was
again transporting me across the state, though this time eastward
and to a well earned break in the city. It had been nearly four
years since my first arrival in Sydney and the young sixteen year
old new chum was now in his twenties and growing more and more
accustomed to life here in Australia. I had met some really decent
folks who had treated me well. There were the bullies and those
who showed indifference to their working men, but over all I
reckon Australia was just what I imagined it would be. The country
had such a variation of landscapes and the air was so fresh and
clean and the Blue Mountains ... well they were magnificent. Yet
Reg had said to me before I left:
"You haven't seen half of it yet
Charlie. It's a big country and you want to see as much of it
while you can."
It was good to have Louie travelling with
me, as I spent many hours listening to him relaying the many
adventures he had while working ships around the world. We had now
left the mountains behind and were drawing nearer to Sydney, when
he mentioned it was about time he found himself a missus ... and
on arriving in Sydney he would see what he could do about it.
After getting off the train at Central Station we were feeling
rather hungry, so we decided to stop for a bite to eat at a
restaurant Louie knew, called 'The Hole In The Wall'.
While devouring a large plate of steak
and eggs, Louie ran into an old friend he had met before heading
out to 'Nanami' some years back and asked where we might find
decent lodgings for a while. He suggested we go to an address in
Surrey Hills, where there was a boarding house and the Landlady
was a gem of a woman who looked after her boarders like they were
family. It sounded pretty good to us so we grabbed our belongings
and began to tramp in that direction.
Louie's mate was right. She was a homely
sort of a woman the landlady and couldn't do enough for us. The
rooms were spic and span and the tucker had a woman's touch to it.
A bit like old Fred's wife cooking and far better than the feeds
the cook knocked up at 'Nanami'. We lived like kings for a month
or two, wandering around the city each day visiting all the wine
bars and always went to 'The Hole In The Wall' restaurant for a
feed in the middle of the day. There was so much to see and a lot
of history in the place relating to convict days when my forebears
culled out the so called undesirables, sending them out to the
penal colony of New South Wales. Australia was now a Federation
and had come along way since those early years. We spent many
hours in a park watching the construction of a mighty steel frame
bridge they were building across the harbour to connect the North
side of Sydney to the city area. I was told they had just started
the project when I first landed some four years ago and it would
be known as the Sydney Harbour Bridge.
Louie had been serious about finding
himself a missus and had gone to one of those matrimonial places
to see what was the go. He had been introduced to a lady by the
name of Jean and would often call on her. He seemed pretty well
smitten, though he said he was treading warily as a bloke couldn't
rush into that sort of thing. My bankroll was starting to get a
bit light on, so I figured one had better start thinking about
finding work again. I was starting to get itchy feet anyway and
was missing the bush. I began looking through the papers for
advertisements and often enjoyed reading the bush verse which was
displayed in it.
I was so taken by one poem that I cut it
out and began to memorize it until I could recite it right
through. Some bloke called Walter Mathieu penned the poem and it
was called, 'That Day at Boiling Downs.' A story about a young
boundary rider who took some reading matter from a Hawker man and
went a bit ratty thinking he was an Injun on the warpath. He
apparently massacred all and sundry on the Station until he
finally dropped dead from Apoplexy. It was recalled by a lone
survivor, who had hidden in a brick oven throughout the whole
ordeal. A bit gruesome in parts, but had a humorous lilt about it.
Finally a position was required for a
station hand on a property in the north west of the state, out
along the northern rail line to Bourke. After making enquiries I
secured the position and was to start in a couple of weeks. Louie
had decided he would stay in Sydney, as he and Jean seemed to be
pretty serious about one another and it would have taken more than
a Harbour tug to pull him away from the place. He told me to keep
in touch and once again I set off by train to my new place of
employment, a property called 'Emu Park'.
'EMU PARK'
My train journey northward brought home
to me the vastness and variation of landscapes that this country
had to offer. I had enjoyed my break in Sydney, but it was
exciting to be heading out to unknown parts and what life might
still have in store. I must admit though, that even traversing
country that was all new to me, the confinement of a railway
carriage for hours on end was rather tiresome. The walks I took
from one end of the train to the other opening and shutting
carriage doors certainly helped at times to kill the boredom,
along with the occasional chats with fellow travellers, who
obviously were experiencing the same restlessness.
The train finally stopped at the small
western town of Nevertire where I was only too happy to alight.
The Station Master advised me I could catch a train to Warren the
following day and in the meantime I could doss down at the hotel
in town. Sleep didn't come easy that night as I tossed and turned
wondering what my new job would be like. Besides the din from
within the Pub was enough to wake old Jack Dunn, lying 'neath the
granite stone at the base of the old gum tree on the outskirts of
town. [Jack Dunn of Nevertire was immortalized in verse by Henry
Lawson.] I was grateful to have had the time to sleep in the next
morning, as the train didn't leave before noon, which gave me time
to have a decent breakfast, followed by a stroll around the place.
The journey to Warren meant traversing
hills one after another ... ups and downs continually. It was the
first time I saw for myself what old Reg must have meant when he
spoke about:
"Those darn devastating
droughts."
Obviously no rain had fallen here for some time as the ground was
looking devoid of grass, while what was left was tufted and brown,
coated with dust from soil turned to powder. The sheep that I saw
were lean and surviving on pulled scrub, which covered acre after
acre. Even the kangaroos were doing it tough, scarcely having the
energy to hop about. I saw what they called out here my first
native dog or Dingo, standing a couple of hundred yards off from
the rail track, though only for a moment, as he quickly
disappeared into some scrub.
After arriving at Warren, I headed over
to the hotel to enquire if anyone from 'Emu Park' was in town as I
needed to get a lift out to the place. The publican advised me
that one of the McAllory brothers was down at the Produce Store,
buying some grain, and if I hurried I'd probably catch him.
Sculling down the beer I'd bought to rid my throat of the dust it
had collected I grabbed my belongings and made my way in the
direction of the store. An old T Model Ford at the front of the
building was being loaded with bags of grain when I saw a tall
wiry gentleman come out of the doorway with the air of being the
person I was after.
"Mr McAllory!" I called, as I
walked up to the back of the vehicle.
"That's what they call me son,"
he responded, "what can I do you for?"
I introduced myself to him explaining that I was the chap from
Sydney who had been offered the position of station hand and was
finally here, ready to start work.
As we drove along the dusty track towards
'Emu Park' he asked a lot of questions. I found him to be a
serious, but amiable bloke - that is for a boss - then he
explained the sort of work I would be required to do. The men's
quarters were actually the original homestead, which had been
replaced by a more modern dwelling, so I managed to score a room
to myself. A change from sharing and that suited me down to the
ground. So began my stay at 'Emu Park.'
The greater part of our days were taken
up cutting scrub for the near starving stock, while at mustering
and marking time the poor creatures only just managed the ordeal.
I often accompanied one or the other McAllory brother into town to
help load the vehicle with whatever grain was available from the
Produce Store, whether it be wheat, rice, corn or anything that
would supplement the diet of animals trying to survive the
terrible plague of drought. I had never seen anything so
demoralizing on animal or man.
The long days of clear blue skies and
heat day in and day out for months on end seemed to sap the very
energy from us all. All I guess except the Chinese workers on the
place who contracted to do the picking up and burning of pulled
paddocks. They camped out on the job in tents, but seemed to
eliminate all worries with the help of cases of white whisky they
kept in plentiful supply.
I had been given the job of going down to
the mail box at dusk each evening in the old T Model Ford when one
evening their seemed a hint of rain in the air. The moon was
already visible when I looked towards the western horizon and I
could see what appeared to be a rain depression, which formed a
large white rainbow across the sky. It was a marvelous sight that
caused me to stop and observe it for a half hour or more before
getting the mail and returning to the homestead. I had never seen
such a sight like it and never saw it again. In fact I never saw
rain again at 'Emu Park' all the time I stayed there.
One particular trip to town always stayed
in my memory, not so much for the trip, but for what took place
after our arrival home. I had gone with the eldest of the brothers
who, while there, had purchased an order for the main homestead.
He had gone into the house with an armful of groceries and as I
was loading myself up I could hear him calling frantically from
inside. I rushed into the house, placing what I had on the kitchen
table and then began to search out the source of the cry. Mr
McAllory and his wife were in the wash area when he summoned me to
come as quickly as I could.
He had apparently walked into the house,
when his wife called out that she was washing, so upon going out
to greet her he'd found that she had a large washtub, three parts
filled with petrol, on top of the boiler trying to get stains out
of his old work clothes. That was the most nerve-wracking
experience I think I have ever been through. Trying to carry that
tub out of the wash area was an intense experience and all the
time I hoped like mad that it would not ignite and send us all up
in a ball of flame. My mind flashed back to the war years and the
memories of the exploding Zeppelin. Then on top of that the
vehicle we had gone to town in, and left parked in front of the
house, lost both its front wheels when Mr McAllory went to put it
in the shed next morning. It left one to ponder.
After some eighteen months of battling to
keep the place going the two brothers finally called all the men
to a meeting in the men's quarters one cold winter's morning. We
were advised that the place had been placed in the hands of the
bank some months back and things were looking grim. The only way
they could keep the workers on was if they took a cut in pay, in
fact, half of what they were getting at present. The drought,
being the worst for years in the district along with wool prices
falling, necessitated such drastic moves.
The bank had made it clear that the
country was in for a depression and times would be tough. It was
Reg who had explained to me in earlier years the need to join a
union, as workers needed to be protected from those who would not
give them a fair go. In the few short years I had been in this
country I had seen the wisdom for such a movement, especially
after the incident with Louie. At the conclusion of the meeting I
went back to my room to give the matter a lot of thought.
I was caught between loyalty to the
McAllorys, their struggle with the place, and the ideals of
unionism. Surely one had the right to at least earn a decent days
wage for a decent days work. Something the union had fought for by
establishing an award. Reasoning there was still much for a young
fella to learn and a lot more country to be seen, with reluctance,
I advised the brothers I'd be taking my leave and wished them all
the best. I guess my final decision was influenced by the fact
that Louie had kept in touch and his last letter was all that was
needed to convince myself that I needed another break and the city
seemed as good a place as any.
I couldn't wait to catch the next train
to Nevertire, as the thought of heading down to Sydney and seeing
old Louie again sounded like a good idea ... even if one had to
face the many boring hours of another train trip. Maybe the
northwest might be different after a good season of rains, but at
the moment I had no desire to stay. So thus ended my association
with 'Emu Park,' along with another chapter of my life.
DROUGHT
The desperation drought can bring was cast before my eyes ...
A squatter's run with starving sheep, their weak and feeble cries.
The days of cutting mulga scrub and pulling sheep from bogs;
Of feral pigs and old black crows, along with native dogs.
The fine red dust which dries one's throat and sticks to face and
limb;
Hot summer days with cloudless skies when hope of rains grow dim.
The squatter who will not give in, whose pluck is never lost,
Whose steadfast wife will stand by him no matter what the cost.
The days they then run into months, the months then into years;
At times you'll bet his nerve will crack, reduce him down to
tears.
The sight of death is everywhere in bleached and scattered bones;
No vegetation on the ground, just paddocks full of stones.
The 'roos that usually hop about begin to move real slow,
But still they hang around the place, there's no where else to go.
The wedge tail eagle soars the skies; there's much on which to
dine;
Goannas they just crawl about for they all do just fine.
The water holes all turn to mud; The creek too turns to sand.
Poor squatter knows if rains don't come he'll surely lose his
land.
The mortgage at the banks still there; the overdraft cut out;
He then begins to lay men off, there's not a soul about.
THE RIVERINA DISTRICT
As depression enveloped the country, the
mood of the people began to change. Times had become tough and
work was scarce. Men and boys tramped all over the place in the
hope of picking up a shilling or two here and there, or at least a
feed and somewhere to doss down and I was now seeing it for myself
as I journeyed back down to Sydney. It was great to see Louie
again, who was still boarding at Surry Hills and still developing
his relationship with Jean. In fact, in all his letters while at 'Emu
Park,' she was all he seemed to write about. Jean this and Jean
that. It appeared, though, that Jean was not about to take Louie
on until he had shown his true colours and Louie was not sure how
long that would take. He, too, was finding things pretty tough and
work scarce, so he had been searching through papers for work in
the bush. Louie figured, perhaps absence would make the heart grow
fonder and after a spell away Jean might make up her mind.
One afternoon Louie came home all excited
with a proposition to put to me. He had been offered a position on
a property down in the Riverina district as a mechanic and the
owner would be willing to give me a job as well. The only snag was
getting there. Though he had the answer to that as well.
"It's about time you bought yourself
your own vehicle to get around in Charlie," he explained to
me.
"There's a Hupmobile parked down the
road with a - For Sale - sign on it and the blokes only asking
sixteen quid. It'd be a steal lad." Louie went on to explain
how we could then drive down to the job together.
The whole idea sounded like a big
adventure to me, so I was only too happy to go along with it. The
following week found us touring down the southern road. It sure
beat sitting in a railway carriage and I felt as proud as punch,
pushing the old girl along as fast as I could, learning by trial
and error the finer details of her temperament. A half day out of
Sydney we came across two young lads tramping their way along the
highway, each with a swag in tow. Neither of them was more than
sixteen years of age and looking for a lift down to Gundagi.
Memories of my early days flashed through
my mind as I pulled over to offer them both a ride. They sat in
the back, giggling and laughing, enjoying every minute of it. Late
that afternoon, as we neared Gundagai, an old goanna ran across
the road and their were shouts and cooees from the lads, who had
obviously never seen one before. I pulled over and the boys gave
chase until it scurried up a big gum tree, leaving them howling
and racing around the base of it like two young hounds.
We bid the boys farewell and wished them
all the best, giving them both a ten schilling note to help them
on their way, knowing that their lot would be much tougher then
when I had first arrived. Louie and I pushed on to Junee and spent
the night in the bush on the edge of town between two logs, which
we had set fires under. The air was bitter cold and every now and
then we would move our bodies along as the fire burnt its way
along the logs. Morning couldn't come quickly enough, as we were
both nearly frozen, and we built the remains of the fire up to
thaw ourselves out.
By late afternoon we drove in through a
large set of gates where the name 'Bundure' was written on the
mailbox.
"This is it Charlie old
cobber," exclaimed Louie, "this is the place we're
looking for." The Super' on the place showed us to our
quarters and explained that the boss would be down to see us in
the morning to give us a run down on what we both would be doing.
It sure was great to sleep in a bunk with blankets instead of
camping out.
After breakfast next morning the boss of
the place explained to Louie that he would be looking after all
the machinery on the place, which would keep him busy, as there
was a back log of work needing to be carried out. I was given the
job of gardening until he could figure out where else I could be
used. It appeared a good mechanic was hard to come by and Louie
was the man he needed most, though Louie had insisted I was part
and parcel of his taking the job.
I hadn't done much gardening before, but
put my back into it and after two days I had cleaned up all the
garden beds. I was feeling rather proud of myself until the boss
brought to my attention that the pretty blue flowers I'd left in
all the beds were, in fact, a weed called blue top and the weeds I
had pulled out were the flowers his missus had planted recently.
He was jolly decent about it all and told me not to worry, that
he'd square things up with his wife and he then gave me a job
helping one of the station hands, whose job it was to fix the many
windmills on the place.
Nugget Peach was a strange sort of bloke,
though he knew his job well, and I learnt a lot from him. There
were some eighty mills on the place, standing about fifteen feet
in height and most at a depth of eight to ninety feet. Louie and I
were glad to see the last of winter and stayed on until Christmas
time. Poor Louie really had it bad for Jean, as that was all he
could talk about, especially when he received one of her perfumed
smelling letters. The blokes who worked on the place were a rather
mixed lot of characters, though pretty easy going, and good to get
along with. The cook fancied the drink a bit, but keeping it on
the place was taboo, so he would make up for it when he went to
town. In fact it was the cook who started proceedings that would
get most of us the sack.
The owners had gone away for the
Christmas break leaving the Super' in charge, but the boys were
getting restless having nothing to do. Old cook fixed that problem
by revealing a brew he had batched up. It was some brew, as the
more we drank, the more restless and rowdy we became. Finally,
over riding the Super' and borrowing two of the stations vehicles
we headed for Jerilderie. Besides those who went in the work
vehicles, a whole swag of us packed into my vehicle as well. We
all had a real spree for two days until we ran out of cash, but
cook solved the problem by making deals with everyone in the town
for dressed turkeys, which he said he could deliver, as long as
they had half the money up front first, promising delivery in a
couple of days. Some time after that kitty had been drunk out as
well and discretion demanded that we had better head back to 'Bundure'
It had been harmless fun; except for the
cooks turkey transactions, but the Super' had other ideas and
informed the boss when he returned. The very next morning, when we
all turned up for work, he called out a list of names and told us
we could pick up our cheques up at the main house. It seems that
we were not needed anymore. So ended our careers in the Riverina
and Louie and I then headed back to Sydney. Jeans last letter had
hinted that she missed Louie far too much anyway, so he was only
too happy to be heading back, leaving me in no doubt as to where
his future lay. At least I had my Hupmoblile and after saying
good-bye to Louie and Jean I headed out of Sydney and in a north
westerly direction, wondering where life would take me.
THE BUNDURE BREW
'Twas Christmas time on old 'Bundure' and with our boss away,
The Super' was the top dog there, a bloke called Boofhead Bray;
It's fact that men grow restless souls with nothing much to do,
But cook resolved our problem though; he had some Bundure brew.
It surely took one's breath away and killed a blokes IQ,
For soon the lads were full as ticks and planned on shooting
through.
When Nugget yelled, "Let's go to town!" The men all
raised a cheer.
"Like hell you are!" old Boofhead cried, "you're
gonna all stay here!"
The men defied the Super's cries and climbed aboard a truck,
For now the brew had taken hold they planned to run amuck.
"Jerilderie or bust!" we cried and sang our way to town,
As Christmas time demanded cheer, we would not let it down.
Two days we stayed there on a spree till all our pay was spent,
But cook had worked a scheme up though; a cunning little gent.
He promised turkeys to the folk with half the cost up front.
"We run them on 'Bundure'," he said. The lying little
runt.
That kitty too was then drunk out, which left us rather shot,
While morning found us heading home, a sore and sorry lot;
Old Bray said,"Lads you've done your jobs, I'm gonna dob you
in."
'Twas surely only fun, we thought, except for cookies sin.
When Monday came, and time to work, the super' called us out,
Then read out loud a list of names ... our jobs were gone no
doubt.
"Your cheques are at the house," he said, "then
find a new abode."
Though first we got cooks recipe, then hit the frog and toad.
THE NORTHWEST
The usual sources of papers and agents
that gave one some idea of job vacancies had apparently dried up
like the drought that was affecting a large part of the
population, exasperated by the continuing depression. Advice from
most sources indicated the only work available was to be found on
Stations in the form of odd jobs. At least with my old Hupmoblile
and some savings from 'Bundure' I could move from place to place
at my own leisure without having to rely on trains.
In the back of my mind I guess I was
heading towards the Northwest for, as much as the memories of
drought and hard times flashed through my mind, I felt comfortable
with at least knowing the area. Towards evenings I would turn off
onto a small track running from the main road and camp in the bush
by a waterhole. After knocking up a feed, I would browse through a
paper I'd purchased through the day until, too tired to read any
further, I would then place a few good logs on the fire, throw my
swag down beside it and then retire for the night.
A sign on the outskirts of Bathurst
advertised the local show was on in town. Why not I thought, it
might be just the place to keep an ear out for some work. Folk,
obviously trying to put hard times out of mind, were all mingling
through the many tents and stands offering all kinds of foods,
crafts and side-shows. The loud booming of a drum then caught my
attention and enticed me to head in the direction of its source. I
came upon a rather charismatic sort of character introducing a
group of men clad in shorts and boxing gloves. A large crowd had
gathered in front of the makeshift arena as this chap thew out
challenges to anyone in the crowd who thought they might be good
enough to take on one of his boys.
Within ten minutes he'd goaded enough
challenges from the crowd. Some in a rather intoxicated state
while others just fancied themselves against these out of towners.
I'd be in this, I thought, and lined up to get a ticket to see the
spectacle. One by one the local challengers took their turn at
crossing over the rope acting as a crude boundary for a boxing
ring.
One by one each man hit the canvas,
though a couple of them put on a mighty good show. Perhaps if
they'd been a little less under the influence they may have gone
the distance. The last bout was between the pick of the boxing
troupe's line up and a challenger, whom the showman called Mauler
Mansfield. It went down to the last minute of the third round,
both men knocking the living daylights out of each other, until
Mauler Mansfield let fly with a haymaker knocking his opponent
clean out. A loud cheer went up from the crowd as the showman
lifted the Mauler's arm into the air declaring him the winner by a
knockout.
Some time later, as I ambled around the
grounds, I came across a group of men standing in front of a shed
set up as a temporary bar. Among them was Mauler Mansfield
celebrating his win, apparently drinking rum to kill his aches and
pains. After securing a drink for myself I felt the urge to
congratulate him on his win and before long we were fully
engrossed in conversation and some serious drinking. He told me
his real name was Kelly Mansfield and then introduced me to his
four mates. Silent Tom, Barney O'Neil, The Busted Oven and The
Wild Irishman. They were all out of work and had been tramping
about the country following shows, using their various skills to
make ends meet. Once the boys found out I had a vehicle and a few
bob in my pocket they seemed to stick like glue.
We then travelled together, the boys
working the various shows from Bathurst to Dubbo. Their skills
were many and varied and I must admit outright dishonest at times.
Silent Tom was a bit of a card sharp extracting money from folk
through card tricks and guessing games. Kelly worked on the boxers
while the rest took advantage of the local folk any way they
could. While at Dubbo, Kelly reckoned I should have a go myself at
boxing, as he'd been showing me a few pointers, and figured I'd do
all right.
The young lad I drew was part aboriginal
and in the second round, while I was holding my own, I drew on all
the remaining strength I could muster and I let fly with a hard
straight jab to his chin. The lad went down for the count.
Suddenly, from out of the blue, I felt something hit me smack in
the middle of the nose, knocking me senseless onto the canvas.
Sometime later I found myself lying in the backseat of the
Hupmoblie with a cold compress over a broken nose. Kelly then
explained to me that when the young aboriginal lad went down his
sweetheart, who went by the name of Boxing Biddy, ook offence and
it was she who had come out of the crowd and decked me. Fancy
being beaten by a sheila I thought.
A few days later on the road to Nyngan
the old Hupmobile was in need of oil, so we followed a dirt track
down to a shearing shed to see if there might be some lying
around. I figured I was in luck when the Busted Oven found a tin
with what appeared to be oil in it, so we topped the old girl up.
We didn't get far when she sounded a bit noisy and therefore
pulled over at a camp site occupied by a gang of bridge builders
and their families. One of them was a bit of a mechanic and after
checking it out he found that what we had put in the old girl was
not motor oil but blow fly oil for sheep. Fortunately we were able
to pump it out and replace it with the real stuff.
That night while camped the boys started
drinking and talking about the times they'd come through. I was
always rather curious as to how the Busted Oven got his name, so
enquired. The tales revealed that he'd been a shearer's cook, who
while organizing tea one night had placed all the tucker in the
oven to keep it hot, when all of a sudden it collapsed, sending
the nights feed into the ruins. He packed up and left in disgust,
but apparently earned himself the nickname. The drink by this time
was starting to take effect, which induced rather boisterous and
colourful language from the boys. A couple of men from the bridge
gang asked us to keep it down and knock off the bad language as
there were women and children in the camp.
Barney took offence and told them where
to go. The men replied they'd send for the police, which then
started a ding dong argument. Before long a fight broke out
drawing others from the bridge builders camp, armed with axe
handles and such. Then a shot rang out into the air, which brought
everyone to a halt. I reckon discretion was the better of of valor
and told the boys I was off as things were getting out of hand.
They all grabbed their gear and we made a hasty retreat.
By the time we had reached Nyngan I
realized my savings were all but gone and I needed to get into
some work. It had become evident to me that the motley crowd I was
with had no serious intentions of taking on any kind of employment
and, as much as their life style was adventurous and exciting, I
could not see a future in it. The pub was always the boys first
port of call so I figured I might as well go with them as it would
be the logical place to hear of any work that might be about. It
wasn't long before the boys were up to their old tricks, fleecing
others out of their hard earned money. Meanwhile I kept my ears
open for some work.
During the afternoon, the Wild Irishman
introduced me to another Irish mate of his called Paddy. It
appeared Paddy and his mate Bert had come onto a fencing job on a
nearby Station and were looking for a third man with a vehicle to
go with them. By late afternoon they'd had their fill of grog and
the three of us headed out to the job. It was apparent they both
liked their drink, but at the same time they could put in a good
days work when it was needed. The gidyea posts had already been
cut and set out along the fence line while our job was to dig the
holes, stand and drill the posts, run three runs of plain and one
of barb and then attach the spring coil wire. The old Hupmoblile
came in handy carting the gear as well as helping to run out the
wire. I'd knocked holes in either side of the boot with the
crowbar, then poked the crowbar through one side and into a roll
of wire and then ran the point into the hole on the other side.
One hot afternoon towards the end of the
job we bogged the old girl down near some swampy ground and, after
an hour or more of doing my block trying to get her out, I'd
managed to strip the gearbox. Our short, but adventurous
relationship ended that day as I walked off and left her there.
The day we finished the job Paddy and Bert headed for town, but as
the boss had asked me if I'd kill a couple of sheep for him before
I left, I said I' catch up with them later. Unknown to me, he'd
given Paddy the cheque for the fencing job and by the time I'd
reached town they'd given it to the publican and asked him to let
them know when they'd cut it out.
I had been depending on the money for
weeks, as I was flat broke, and they had spent more than their
fair share. Drowning my sorrows in what was left, I brooded over
how they'd taken me down, until it got the better of me. I told
Paddy what I thought of him, which he didn't take kindly too, and
he took a swing at me. I had often heard of the saying ... I saw
red ... and believe me, that day, I literally saw what it meant.
Everything just seemed to literally turn red for a moment, then I
did my block by knocking Paddy head over turkey and out like a
light. It was one of the few fights I ever won.
Having settled the score, one of the
blokes in the pub offered me a ride down to Warren and seemed sure
I might find work there, so I took him up on the offer. The place
hadn't changed much since my time on 'Emu Park' and on arriving at
the pub I asked if there was any work about. One particular chap,
who'd been sitting on his own at the end of the bar, introduced
himself as Stewart Hildich. He said he was heading down towards
Nevertire to do a bit of picking up and burning and was sure that
I'd get on there as well. We only spent two or three months on the
job as the winter nights, camped in tents, was more then my bones
could bear. It was just a job and it reminded me of earlier years,
when I'd taken on sucker bashing. Only for one old timer showing
me how to set a hurricane lantern under my iron stretcher at
night, acting as a heater, I would have surely frozen to death.
Stewart and I would sit around the fire
at night, conversing over places we had been and where we would
like to go. He had a hankering to get out of sheep country and
head north. He'd heard there was real good cattle country up in
North Queensland and fancied heading on up there. It sounded
pretty good to me, so we finished up and procured a lift back to
Warren. On appraisal, we estimated that we would need to save a
reasonable kick to get us through the early part of the journey as
times were hard and there were so many blokes on the road and work
would be scarce. We began searching for work in the local area.
Apparently there was a vacancy for a cook
at the pub and Stewart talked himself into applying for it. So had
about twenty others, among them were shearer's cooks with plenty
of experience or so they said. I was rather dumbfounded when he
came up to me, after having been interviewed, and said he had been
given the job and was to start immediately. His first job was to
cook tea that night, for those staying at the pub. I was sitting
in the kitchen watching him prepare the veges, when it become
obvious to me that he knew nothing about it.
"Have you done any cooking before
mate?" I asked.
"Not so to speak of Charlie, but I
thought I'd pick it up." replied Stewart.
Fortunately the tutoring Reg had given
me, rough as it was, came in handy. Together we knocked up a meal
that passed for tea and surprisingly we had no complaints. So,
between myself and one of the housemaids he was sweet providing
him with hints on other dishes as well as help from one of the
housemaids sweet on providing him with hints of other dishes,
Stewart was able to bluff his way through the next few months
until the end of winter. During this time I had also picked up a
few odd jobs around town. By the last week of winter we now
figured it was time to make a move. Stewart gave notice and we
knocked up a swag each, consisting of a bit of canvas to sleep on
as well as a blanket and a calico fly. On top of that we filled a
sugar bag with provisions, along with a billy can and frypan. By
the end of the week we were tramping north on the road to Corinda,
headed for Queensland.
ACROSS THE BORDER
It had been nearly eight years since I'd
landed in this country and already it had shown me its many
different faces. I must admit that my time on 'Emu Park' threw me
a bit. The drought that is. I hadn't expected nature to be so
cruel and harsh on the land as I had experienced there. On
reflection though, I'd ascertained that one would have to be
prepared to take the good with the bad. At the moment, the
depression was making things tough for every man, woman and child.
So far, the years had been more than the adventure I'd bargained
on. Though there were no regrets I might add. I'd kept in touch
with the landlady at Surry Hills who had forwarded a letter to me
from Louie, as we'd agreed to keep in contact through her. He and
Jean had finally married and it turned out that his Jean had been
well off. I guess she had been trying Louie out all that time to
see if he was interested in her or her money. They had both moved
to America to live and were very happy. It was the last time I
heard from Louie.
Stewart and I were travelling Irish
tandem, one foot after the other, for most of the morning, when a
passing wool truck stopped to give us a lift.
"Where are you heading fellas?"
the thin, wiry driver asked.
"North," we said,
"anywhere North."
"Take you as far as Corinda."
"That'll be fine," we replied.
We camped in the scrub just out of town for the night, then next
morning, while passing through the town, we noticed a couple of
pushbikes outside a second hand store for sale.
"Might beat tramping,"Stewart
suggested.
"Could be right," I replied.
In the minutes that followed we were the proud owners of Bluebird
and Louise. That being the names of our new acquisitions.
Twenty miles a day was a pretty fair push
for a bicycle, not that we always made it that far all the time,
but on a good day it was possible. At times we would spend hours
repairing punctures, making progress very slow. We had ridden
North through Walgett, then towards Lightning ridge, where the
long awaited rains decided to fall. Suddenly the dry, dusty, track
ahead became a quagmire, making it nearly impossible to ride
pushbikes.
At times, knee deep in mud, we noticed
other bikes hanging in forks of trees, obviously abandoned by
their owners from previous wets. Thoroughly worn out from pushing,
we decided to hang ours alongside the rest. I must admit that the
wet conditions made camping and tramping rather miserable. At
night we looked for abandoned or vacant buildings where we could
throw our swags down long enough to rest our aching feet from the
long days walk. Lighting a fire was a real challenge, as trying to
find enough dry material to boil a billy of tea to wash down a bit
of dried meat was near impossible. Passing through Angledool we
finally reached the Queensland border at Hebel.
We stocked up on tea, sugar and flour,
knowing once these supplies were gone we may need to depend on the
generosity of Station owners to provide us with dry rations or
work to survive. On leaving Hebel the watercourses were rising
from the run off and a day's tramp found us caught between two
creek systems, running bankers. For two days we were unable to
move in any direction and we were sick of living on Johnny cakes,
treacle and tea. Then, suddenly, we heard the sound of a sulky.
The gent driving it, apparently heading home from his daughter's
wedding, had found a spot on the creek where he was able to cross.
Realising our predicament, he stopped to discuss the situation and
shared our billy of tea. After offering him some of our johhny
cakes and treacle, he became aware of what we had been surviving
on and so offered us some pickled pork left over from the wedding.
I don't have to tell you how well that lot went down. Following
his directions, we crossed the creek and eventually passed through
Dirranbandi and then headed northwest towards Bollon.
We had learnt to carry a couple of ration
bags, which held our tea, sugar and flour. We always took an empty
bag up to the Station homestead making out things were pretty grim
tucker wise and by doing this we always kept a reasonable supply
of these commodities.
The tramp from Dirranbandi to Bollon was
long and hard and we only managed a short lift on one occasion,
which was very much appreciated. Sometimes a smoke was the only
consoling moment during those long treks by day. One night while
camped on the track I was awoken by a strange clanging noise,
which I don't mind admitting, frightened the life out of me.
Stewart Stewart and I got little sleep as this noise kept up all
night long. Next morning we woke to find a string of horses moving
ahead of a large mob of sheep, the lead horse had a bell attached
to a leather strap around its neck. The drover had apparently
camped the night up the road, which explained the noise, and it
was a sound we would become familiar with from that time on.
We had a bit of a chinwag with the old
mate and asked where he'd come from and where he was heading. Then
before riding off he said,
"You know boys with a mob this size
a bloke wouldn't know if one went missing. Would he now?"
Blind Freddy would have got his drift and we were truly grateful
to be able to sit down that night and gorge ourselves on mutton
chops. Our droving mate had suggested we work our way North from
Bollon, as we may pick up a bit of work on one of the Stations
which were due to start shearing in a months time. Some days later
we passed through Bollon and then followed a creek running North,
which brought us in contact with a Pommy chap driving a wool
truck.
"Can you handle a lift chums?"
said the driver with a grin from ear to ear.
"Too right mate," we replied
and jumped up in the cabin.
"The names Dave Brown from 'Eucumbene',"
he said with great pride. "You boys are looking a bit thin on
it. Have you been getting any work?"
"Can't say we have Dave, though
we've been keeping an eye out."
I said assuringly.
"Then you'd better doss down at home
a while as I've got work coming up."
I couldn't believe my ears. Since being
in this country I'd met a few of my English born countrymen who'd
taken on the land, but, until now, had never met one who didn't
gloat over his success or want to try to take you down in some
way. This Dave Brown though was a true gentleman. On arriving at
his place he set us up in the shearer's quarters, advising us that
he would be shearing in a couple of weeks time and we could do a
bit of rouseabouting. In the meantime we could do odd chores
around the place to earn our keep. Having spoken of my ability to
kill and dress sheep, Dave gave me the job of doing all his
butchering and lent me a few fishing lines, which suggested I was
to spend some time down at the creek, which ran past the place and
keep everyone in fish. Stewart offered to help with the mustering
in preparation for the shearing. Each night we had the privilege
of eating up at the main house and one night after wandering back
to the shearer's quarters after our meal Stewart and I sat by the
warmth of the fire we had going. Suddenly, Dave came out of the
dark to join us, handing over a bottle of rum. It had been a while
since we'd indulged, but we were happy to share it with him and as
we drank we discussed our travels with the man. Dave had
apparently been on the place for years just as his father before
him. He recalled how his dad had told him of a mate he had in the
1800's who was a shearer. There were some gun shearers about in
those days, though this one particular bloke was a well known
bully who earned himself the nickname of Basher Brogan. A proud
man, who picked on new chum.
His mate had tramped down to a shed
looking for work and, getting on, he noticed Brogan was in the
team as well. Sure enough, Brogan began picking on a young
rouseabout and goaded him into a fight. Sick of his bullying the
men told the young lad to take a dive when he hit him and they'd
do the rest. When Brogan hit him on the chin with a right the
young lad fell to the ground and never moved. The old mate knelt
down beside him and made out he couldn't feel a pulse, advising
everyone that the lad was dead. The others played along and they
carried the lad into one of the huts and covered him with a sheet.
Brogan went to pieces thinking he had killed the lad, while the
men told him the Squatter had sent for the police and they were
coming out from town. They assured him things didn't look to good
for him and that he'd probably hang for sure.
Next day, playing along with the men, the
Squatter told them all to dig the lad a grave. Brogan helped, but
his nerves were shot to pieces and he obviously was feeling quite
remorseful when he finally broke down.
"What a fool of a man I've
been," he whimpered out aloud. "I've on my head a young
lad's death, for being, oh, so proud."
Sensing he'd had enough they told Brogan to look over at the hut
where they had laid the lad and suddenly the door opened and the
young rouseabout walked out. Brogan learnt a lesson from it and
the grave, according to his Dad's mate, is still on the place with
a headstone reading:
At Rest
Basher Brogan's Pride
We lived like kings for those couple of
weeks. A hot tub at night, cooked meals, which included yellow
belly I had caught through the day, and then a warm dry bunk at
night. When the shearing started I worked in the shed picking up,
while Stewart took on cooking for the crew. The shed lasted for
some three weeks and then all the shearers moved on. Dave,
impressed with my keenness to do a day's work, told the Super to
muster up the stragglers that had been missed in the main muster.
"How would you like to learn to
shear Charlie?" he asked.
"Wouldn't mind having a go at it
Dave," I suggested.
"Well, I'll give you the job of
cleaning up the stragglers lad and I'm willing to pay you for
it."
I spent a day with him learning the ropes and I was left to do the
rest. I finally worked up to eighty a day, no record, but pleased
to have had the opportunity.
After the weeks on 'Eucumbene' it was
hard to take to the road again. We both felt as fit as fiddles and
had a good little kick in our pockets as well. I must admit that
he was one in a million old Dave Brown, not the sort of bloke you
would forget in a hurry. Leaving 'Eucumbene', we tramped
northwards until another wool truck offered us a lift to Roma. A
bit off our intended track, but we thought we'd take the chance to
have a look at the place. We followed the rail line in a westerly
direction out of Roma, which proved to be the hardest and
loneliest part of our journey so far. Days, months of tramping
through Mitchell, Morven, then north-west up through Augathella,
Tambo, Blackall and finally Barcaldine. I must admit though, that
it was some of the finest grazing country I had ever seen, with
miles of Mitchell grass as far as the eye could see. I wore out
three pairs of sandshoes and my feet stunk worse than a dead
snake. At night I would have to throw them well away from our camp
to avoid the smell.
Though Stewart was good company, at times
there was a sense of loneliness and depression and sometimes at
night I would recall a verse of two of Lawson's poem:
'Knocked Up'
I'm lying on a barren ground that's baked and cracked with
drought,
And dunno if my legs or back or heart is most wore out
Then there were days of seeing no one, not a soul. Also the
stretches where we ran short of tucker. Most Station owners would
gladly give you dry rations, but on one particular occasion we
were refused by a real mean chap, who was determined to part with
very little.
To compensate we walked down to a creek
running through his place and helped ourselves to one of his sheep
anyway. Just for being so mean, but we did leave the fleece on the
fence. It didn't take me long to dress our victim into chops and
in the meantime Stewart had prepared a fire in preparation to cook
them. Unfortunately, that night, a spark must have jumped from the
fire and started the surrounding grass on fire. Unable to get it
under control we felt it was time we made a move and put as many
miles between us and it before daylight. We felt bad about burning
his paddocks out, but reasoned that maybe if he hadn't been so
mean it wouldn't have happened.
I recall one night on that journey I was
so depressed, probably due to the fact I'd run out of tobacco, I
kicked the billy off the fire only to burn my foot with the hot
water. Fortunately we had both kept a stash from our earnings from
'Eucumbene', so arriving at Barcaldine we decided we would use it
to buy a couple of horses as we'd had enough of tramping and
humping our swags.
BASHER BROGAN'S PRIDE
I tramped on down to Dawson's place. He owned old 'Gumajong'.
The last shed's cheque had been cut out, it didn't last that long.
My luck was in, he took me on, I'd get my hands in wool,
Then spotted Basher Brogan mate; the raging mallee bull.
This Brogan was a shearer who'd been working sheds for years,
From Queensland down to New South Wales, a gun he was with shears.
His reputation was well known, though not for shearing sheep.
A proud man who would pick a mate, then leave him in a heap.
He loved to rib the new chums like and throw his weight about
And if a bloke should take a stand; he'd simply knock him out.
Men hated working sheds with him, but work was hard to find,
So brushed aside his vulgar ways and put them out of mind.
Next morning Dawson lectured us before the shed kicked off;
A decent sort of cove he was, no high faluting toff.
The morning passed and all was well till Basher hollered out.
He'd found himself some poor new chum. A local rouseabout.
For days he gave the young lad hell, his sights were set in him;
Wed have to help this poor lad out as things were looking grim.
'Twas obvious he'd not give up until he picked a brawl.
We told the boy to play along and take a dying fall.
Then sure enough straight after work our hunch was proven right.
He'd followed the young rouseabout and goaded him to fight.
The young lad stood and made a stand as Basher let one drive.
It hit the young chum on the chin; he wisely took a dive.
His frame it looked a lifeless form; I knelt down by his head.
"Can't say I feel a pulse!" I cried, "I think the
young lad's dead!"
The others knew the gibe was on and played along with me.
"He's dead alright," another said, "as dead as one
can be."
Poor Brogan's face went white as flour; a lump formed in his
throat.
'Twas good to see old Brogan squirm for normally he'd gloat.
We carried the young rouseabout and laid him in a hut,
Advising Basher he would hang; the case was cut and shut.
They covered the young rouseabout, who played his part real well.
Poor Brogan he just sat and moaned, too ill to really tell.
"Old Dawson's told the cops," they said,"they're
coming out from town."
The bully Brogan felt remorse and paced on up and down.
Now Dawson knew the gibe was on, he'd heard old Basher rave,
Next morn he told the men to dig the poor young lad a grave.
For hours they dug and Basher helped, he never said a word.
Till suddenly he cried aloud, his words by all were heard.
"What foolishness is this I've done?" he whimpered out
aloud,
"I've on my head a young lads death, for being ,oh, so proud.
If only I could bring him back. I'd be a better man.
I only seek forgiveness LORD. Please do it if you can."
" I think old Basher's had enough," said Dawson to the
men.
You've got your wish my foolish friend the lad will live a'gen."
The hut door squeaked and opened wide; the rouseabout walked out.
Poor Basher thought it was a ghost; the men all gave a shout.
He knew he had been gibed that day, but learnt from what he'd
done.
The rouseabout and he 'come mates. Like father and like son.
On 'Gumajong' there lies a grave with headstone there to read.
At Rest Lies Basher Brogan's Pride ... you bullies all take heed.
THE CENTRAL WEST
Our aching and weary bones demanded we
take a few days rest after the long weeks of tramping from the
Queensland border. Camped on the outskirts of Barcaldine we made a
temporary leanto, which gave us shade through the day where we
could just sit around and read a newspaper. This enabled us to
catch up on what was happening around the district and where we
might pick up a couple of saddle horses. Among the columns of news
items Stewart read where there where some impounded horses up for
sale. Having asked where the impounding yards were, we walked in
that direction until we caught sight of a sign hanging on a
paddock fence, which identified it as the place.
A rather poor, but well bred sort of a
chestnut gelding caught my eye and I figured that with a bit of
tucker in him he'd make a descent saddle horse. After some
haggling with the chap in charge of the yards, I picked him up for
thirty bob, along with an old bridle. Stewart picked out an old
grey mare with a scar up her left rump, apparently left there by
the horn of a scrubber bull. Both animals had strayed from a
droving plant, which had been passing through the district the
week before. Feeling well rested, we stocked up on provisions and
headed North again. This time with our swags loaded on the horses,
though still tramping as we felt they needed to pick up a bit of
condition before we expected them to carry us as well.
Our first camp out of Barcy was shared
with company in the person of one Michael O'Brien. One couldn't be
more Irish than that. He had a sulky with an outrigger pulled by
two horses with a saddle horse in tow. Michael dealt in animal
skins, shooting kangaroos, wallabies and rabbits, then tanned the
hides, which he turned into rugs. The trade treated him well and
he too was working his way North.
"You lads have come all this
way," he said , "and you don't even own a rifle. How the
dickens do you survive?"
Not wishing to tell him we had relied on others I just shrugged my
shoulders and said,
"Never gave it a thought old
mate."
"I know just the place where you can
send for one, along with loading gear," he went on.
The idea of owning a rifle sounded like a good investment to me as
it would make surviving a whole lot easier on the track ahead. I
had just enough left in my kick to purchase one and would give the
matter a lot of thought before we reached the next town.
We travelled with Michael, who showed us
his skill with his rifle by picking out animals along the way,
which he would skin and salt and then store them on the sulky. One
thing we noticed about Michael was that he had a strange habit of
always wearing his hat. Even at night we had noticed that he slept
with it on his head. Upon reaching Aramac, Michael gave me the
address of the place in Sydney where I could purchase a twenty
five twenty rifle with its accessories and he advised me to have
it sent to the Post Office at Prairie. He reasoned that as we were
heading North and in that direction it should get there some time
before us.
The days that followed found us helping
Michael with his trade. I learnt how to prepare and tan hides
along with the skills associated with making rugs. A very amiable
old fellow Michael, though we continually noticed he would never
be seen without his hat. The plain lands were easy to traverse and
always gave us game to eat, helping me to see the tremendous
advantage of owning a rifle. As we worked our way to the rail
line, which ran from Townsville to Mt Isa, we kept our rations
topped up by calling in at the odd Stations we passed. After a
couple of weeks the horses were starting to pick up condition,
enabling us to ride part of the way.
A month after leaving Aramac we found
ourselves at Prairie where my first call was the Post Office. Sure
enough, the rifle I had sent for was waiting there.
"Been here about four days,"
the Post Master advised me.
Michael had allowed me to use his rifle on our way up and I had
taken to handling one rather well and had become a reasonable
marksman. According to my tutor, so I was anxious to get out of
the place and keen to try it out.
We decided to travel eastward and
parallel to the railway line in the direction of Pentland and I
had made up my mind I would provide fresh meat for tea that night.
Late in the afternoon we came across a wild pig wallowing about in
a bore drain about a hundred yards from the fence line we were
following.
"That's our tea lads," I said
with great confidence, taking aim with my new rife.
"I bet we all end up eating the left
over wallaby," Stewart suggested to Michael, obviously
doubting my ability to hit the target.
The shot rang out like a hammer striking
an anvil and all eyes were glued in the direction of the pig. With
a loud squeal the grunter lurched sideways, falling to the ground,
thrashing it legs about for a moment, then lay perfectly still.
"Strewth, you've hit it
Charlie!" exclaimed Stewart.
"Well done Charlie!" echoed
Michael. "Fine piece of shooting."
We decided we'd make camp there that night and enjoy a bit of
roast pork for tea. Michael said he'd do the honours and dress out
the meat for us, when it finally happened. As he leant over to
work on the pig, his hat fell off his head, revealing a rather
white, shiny, bald crown. Michael grabbed at his hat and quickly
replaced it upon his head, looking in our direction to see if we
had noticed. He was obviously very temperamental about the
condition of his head, which explained his aversion for not being
separated from his hat.
From that point on, Michael's attitude
towards us changed. To make it worse the pork we had all enjoyed
so much the night before took to Michael with adve
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