Hughenden — Coach Journey

Standing on the banks of the Flinders River, Hughenden has a decidedly picturesque appearance. And in addition to its picturesqueness it is a place of considerable importance, being the present terminus of the Northern Railway, to which comes all the produce of the great Pastoral West, and the depot from which those same pastoral regions derive their stores. Though a trifle larger than the general run of bush settlements, the township is of the usual pattern, made up of vacant allotments, dusty streets, houses of wood built on short thick piles and roofed with the inevitable galvanised iron, a hospital, a court house, a divisional board hall, a couple of tin tabernacles, a Chinese bakery, and a police station, with stores and hotels galore.

On arrival we rode up to our hotel, a long, low, one-storied building in the main street, and turned our weary horses loose in the stable yard. These township hotels are all very similar, the same peculiarities attach themselves to them all. The same long passage runs the whole length of the building, and off this the same stamp of bedrooms lie. The bathroom, when it is not used as a henroost, is always located in the spot most difficult to find, and every turning in the entire caravanserai, right or wrong, invariably brings one to the bar. Sometimes the servants are moderately civil, but as a rule they are exasperatingly independent. The owner himself is nobody, the person of most importance, next to the barmaid, being the Chinese cook. There’s an amount of electroplated dignity about those two officials which is simply freezing.

The arrangements are as good as can be expected in such places, and the prices are not more than usually diabolical. One objection (if we haven’t objected to anything already) is that the walls of the bedrooms do not run up to the roof, for ceiling there is none, so that every word we say can be plainly-overheard in the next apartment, except when the hotel is full, and then, just to vary matters, the noise is so deafening that you can’t hear yourself speak.

Having had enough of riding, we decided, if possible, to dispose of two of our horses in Hughenden, and to purchase in their stead some sort of a wheeled vehicle. We were confidently informed that we should be able to make just as good progress on wheels as in the saddle, be less bothered with horses, travel more comfortably, and at the same time carry more luggage and stores than heretofore. Accordingly, we straightway set about our search.

Owing to the scarcity of grass and water, horses were a drug in the market, and, as at Normanton, we found everybody anxious to sell, nobody to buy. However fortune was not going to desert us in this scurvy fashion, for during the evening an old man put in an appearance with the information that in a few days he would have a buckboard buggy to sell ‘at a fair figure.’ We said ‘a fair figure’ sounded reasonable enough, but we would wait and see the conveyance before we committed ourselves.

On the face of it (of circumstances I mean, not the buggy) it was impossible, at the ruinous price of bush hotels, for both of us to remain. So on the remembrance of an invitation from a hospitable squatter in the neighbourhood, given us while in Townsville, I decided to go on by coach to his station, leaving the Long’un to follow with the buggy, if it should equal our expectations.

By the time these arrangements were concluded. we had made a considerable number of friends, and the night before I left they all attended to bid me ‘goodbye,’ Gratitude is one of my strong points, and I shall not forget that ‘goodbye’ if I live to be a hundred. Who they really were, or where they came from, neither of us had any idea. They trooped in, one after another, like imps in a pantomime. They were the most friendly set of ruffians I ever experienced, and every man jack of them had come with the invincible determination of drinking to our good fortunes as long as the drink and the money, or the credit, held out. I may possibly be wrong, but I think (I only say I think) that they acted up to their intentions.

During the evening, a thin, gentlemanly-looking young fellow lounged into the bar, and commenced a disjointed conversation with the goddess of the place. Something about his appearance fascinated me, and instinctively I felt I was in the presence of somebody really great. Pointing him out to a bystander, I asked who he was? ‘Lor’ bless you!’ was the reply, ‘don’t you know who’e is? Why! that’s’im who drives the Winton coach, and a son of a gun of a fine driver, too, my colonial! Takes you out tomorrow morning!’ There! I felt he must be a great man.

Towards midnight, with protestations of eternal friendship, our meeting broke up. All who were able to, went home; the rest remained where they were till morning. One man in particular who had regarded me with peculiar favour all the evening, repeatedly avowed his intention of never leaving me.

I was just the sort of bloomin’ candidate for his money; no dogrotted woman suffrage about me, and I should have his vote if he busted for it. Then calling heaven and earth to witness his unconquerable determination, he placidly laid himself down on the side walk and fell into a sweet sleep.

My coach was to leave at 4.30 a.m., and, as it was then considerably after midnight, I determined to turn in and obtain a few hours’ rest. But though I turned in, repose was not permitted me. My right-hand neighbour was a gentleman who snored — if such an inadequate word can express it. I had never heard anything like it before, and certainly I haven’t since. Starting in a faint wheezy whisper, it gradually grew and grew in volume, until it reached the exact imitation of an empty iron water-cart rumbling over a cobbled pavement. No other description would give you any idea of it. It was the most soul-distracting noise imaginable; it split the match-board partition and contracted the iron roofing — almost. Everybody in the neighbourhood was aware of it, and had something different to say on the subject. I heard them distinctly, and awaited the denoument Presently I caught footsteps stumbling along the passage, then the handle of the snorer’s door was turned, and somebody entered his room. As I have said, the walls did not reach up to the roof, consequently all the proceedings could be plainly overheard by the occupants of the adjoining rooms. The interest was intense. We detested the delay; but we felt the avenger was fumbling for the snorer’s bed. Presently he found it.

His voice sounded very ghostly in the stillness between the snores.

‘Here, I say, you mister! Wake up.’

‘Eh! wha — what’s the matter? It ain’t time to get up yet!’

‘Time be! Say! Now look here, do you think you’ve got any right to snore this bloomin’ old’ouse down?’

‘Who’s snoring the house down?’ ‘You are!’

‘That be blowed for a yarn! What a yer givin’ us? Snore? Why, T haven’t slept a wink the whole of this blessed night.’

‘Don’t you — that’s all. You just raise as much as ‘alf another snore, and I’ll raise you out of this’ere shanty in a pig’s whisper! You take it from me!’

‘Oh, take a fit!’ etc. etc.

The visitor left, but in less than two minutes the concert had recommenced, and from my little bed I wondered who’d be the next to take the matter up. As before, the noise gradually grew in volume, shook the partitions, and rolled in sullen thunder down the passages. Then a female voice, somewhere in the darkness, said —

‘Jim!’

‘Hullo!’

‘Jim! there’s somebody snoring so’s I can’t sleep!’

‘Hang’im,’e’s kept me awake these three hours. I reckon I’ll go and have a talk to’im!’

Once more ghostly footsteps stole down the corridor, and once more I heard the fumbling for the snorer’s bed.

‘Here. Wake up!’

‘Oh! go to glory! Who’re you a comin’ round, and a worryin’ of folks at this time o’ night?’

‘Who ‘ml? Well, I’ll learn you who I am, blamed quick. I’m a shearer from the Billabong as never called for tar. Who are you to keep a whole bloomin’ hotel awake, cussin’ you for snorin’ and a roarin’ like a helephant with the ‘eaves? ’

There was a sharp crack, resembling the sound of a fist striking a hard cheekbone, and, in half a second, a rough-and-tumble struggle on the floor. Then we knew that everyone was awake, for from all sides came signs of encouragement and advice. When, five minutes later, a husky voice said, ‘There! I reckon that ‘11 learn you not to snore!’ the enthusiasm was unbounded, and every man was wanting someone else to come and drink with him, at somebody else’s expense of course. I forget what happened after that, for within ten minutes I was asleep. When I woke, it was to find a lantern glaring in my face, and a voice saying, ‘Four o’clock, and an awful cold morning. Hurry up; coach starts in half an hour.’

After dressing myself by candlelight, I got my things together, swallowed a hasty breakfast, and went out into the bitterly cold street. A forlorn young moon was just sinking behind the opposite housetops, and her feeble light showed me a bulky substance standing in the road. This, on closer inspection, I found to be the coach. Cobb’s conveyances are too well known to need much description. Suffice it that they are heavy lumbering constructions riding on leather springs, with bodies somewhat after the fashion of the ordinary English coach. The box holds three passengers, the inside generally four; the luggage is piled on the roof and on a tray behind. Five horses are driven, and as likely as not, three of the number have never been in harness before.

As I arrived upon the scene, the driver put in an appearance, and while leisurely scanning the load, made reference to some horses we should obtain at the first change. I was cheered to hear that they were ‘real warrigals,’ or in other wor............