Bourke — We prepare for a row of 1,500 miles — River Steamers — The Darling River — Wilcannia — Weinteriga — Menindie — The ‘Decoy’
AFTER our long absence from any big town, there was something almost terrifying about the size of Bourke. Her streets, with their metropolitan air, her shops and palatial banks, to say nothing of our hotel with its obsequious waiters, quite overpowered us. When we arrived, our appearances did not say much in our favour. The Long’un was by many degrees the more presentable, but he was by no means decent; as for me I was outside the pale altogether. My one remaining shirt had lost both its arms; my moleskin trousers were a mass of shreds and patches, and my boots had their soles wired on. My pith helmet was a sight to see, and weep over! At first sight we looked a precious pair of ruffians, and it was only when we had explained matters, that the landlord consented to take us in at all.
As soon as we had stabled Cyclops and Polyphemus, we set out for the Post Office, obtained our letters, discovered our bank, cashed our drafts, and then repaired in haste to a tailor’s shop, where we arrayed ourselves to the best of our ability in ready-made clothing. It is wonderful what a difference a suit of clothes makes to a man’s pluck. When we entered the shop we felt the poorest pair of mortals in the whole of Australia, but when we came out in our new rigs, we would have passed the time of day to the Governor himself. Thus poverty makes cowards of us all.
Bourke, for so far west, is a fine town, built on the west bank of the Darling Elver, and is connected with Sydney by rail. Though a long distance from the capital, it possesses all the advantages of the most up to date civilisation. It has its school of arts, theatre, rowing, racing, and tennis clubs, swimming baths, etc., and a population of 3,149 souls, out of which number enough can be gleaned to make up a refined and intellectual society.
As other proofs of its civilisation, on a vacant piece of land opposite our hotel, when we arrived, a steam merry-go-round, in full swing of business, was making night hideous with ‘Ta-ra-ra-boomdeay’ (an air whose acquaintance we made for the first time); while, in a bank dining room hard by, we could see, from our window, a dinner party proceeding with all the ceremony of a similar function in Park Lane or Pott’s Point. According to the advertisements Ibsen’s ‘Doll’s House’ was being played at the Bijou Theatre, while a prize fight was being conducted at a hall within easy distance. As a Bourke resident observed when I drew his attention to these things, ‘You certainly can’t say we’re behind the times!’
The following morning, soon after breakfast, a gentleman called upon us, with a view of relieving us of our horses and much enduring buggy. Accordingly, after taking the opportunity of having them photographed, we bade a reluctant farewell to the two faithful animals who had been our companions for so long a distance, and in so many hours of bitter trouble and privation. We both experienced a real feeling of sorrow in saying farewell to them; and we were glad to hear they were likely to be kindly treated. The buyer intended to give them a holiday for a month or two, and then to start them back a considerable distance on their tracks into Queensland. Had we been able to afford it we should have pensioned them off, but as we were almost as poor as they, it was useless to think of such a thing.
That business concluded, we sought the river bank and inquired among the boatmen there for a rowing boat in which to continue our journey for the next fifteen hundred miles. Owing, however, to the late disastrous flood, and the fact that there was every prospect of another (for the river was rising rapidly), we had considerable difficulty in hearing of one. But money overcomes most difficulties, and the bribe of a couple of drinks brought us a man, who knew a man, who knew another man who had an old boat, he had made himself, for sale. Our informant, for another consideration, volunteered to row us up the river to have a look at her.
She was certainly far from handsome, but for that matter neither were our horses nor buggy, yet they had proved themselves good bargains. We examined her carefully, and finding it was almost a case of Hobson’s choice, purchased her for about twice as much as she had been worth when new.
The heat was tremendous, and as we knew we should be compelled to lie out in mid-stream on our down river journey, we resolved to fix up some sort of an awning before’ we started. This we accomplished with two cart tilts and a yard or two of canvas, making an admirable shade. By sundown, our preparations were completed; then, having laid in a large amount of stores, and accepted the good wishes of our new made friends, we pushed out into mid-stream, and started on our long row.
Fortunately the river was in high flood, and in consequence the current ran briskly. We took things easily, the rowing especially, and until the novelty wore off, and we had to work in downright earnest, enjoyed the change hugely. Then the reflection that so many miles had to be accomplished between sunrise and sunset every day, began to assert itself, and as it did, our pleasure in the exercise diminished.
For the first twenty miles or so out of Bourke we had constant companions in the fishermen who lined the banks. The lives of these gentry must be monotonous beyond all idea Too lazy to do real work, they manage to knock out sufficient money to keep them in the bare necessaries of life by fishing for Murray cod — a fine big fish and remarkably good eating. First cousins to these men are the ‘Darling whalers,’ as they are called: idle, loafing, thieving tramps, somewhat after the fashion of the ‘Travellers’ in North Queensland, who move up and down the river (up one bank and down the other), from year’s end to year’s end, doing no work and depending for their existence upon the charity of the unfortunate Squatter. When they can’t steal from him they practise on each other, and these are the gentry who generally promote, and invariably assist in, the strikes, wool-shed burnings, bush fires, horse and sheep stealing, and other little pleasantries of a like description. A ‘Darling whaler’ is, if anything, lower than the ‘Traveller,’ who is lower than the scum of the earth, and even in saying that you are paying both of them too high a compliment!
From Bourke downwards the river is a noble stream (I am speaking of it as it was at the time of our journey), in places many miles in width. The bends are very numerous, and horribly annoying, the river proper running for the first eight hundred miles as much as three miles of water to every one of land. Fortunately for us, its usual high mud-banks were almost entirely submerged, and this with the great forest gums, half hidden under water, gave it a most strange, yet picturesque effect. Save for the discordant shrieks of the cockatoos in the trees overhead, a wonderful quiet reigned; the splashing of our oars sounded strangely loud in the stillness, and a steamer’s panting could be heard many miles away, as plainly as if she were only round the bend. These river steamers, and the men they employ, are strange concerns. In good seasons they trade right away from Goolwa in South Australia, to Walgett, above Bourke, in New South Wales, a distance of something like 2,345 miles. In construction they are flat-bottomed, absurdly wide-beamed, two or three decked, paddle — wheeled tubs, steered from a bridge, and driven, in most instances, by ordinary traction engines, balanced and secured amidships. They are manned by a captain, mate, engineer, and half a dozen hands, and not unfrequently they tow two large barges behind them. A steamer heavily loaded, and towing two barges crammed with wool, swinging round the bend, is a sight worth going a long way to see; and when anything goes wrong, and the captain expresses himself according to his native instinct, it is as good as a Crystal Palace firework display.
The captains are great heroes, and carry more silver mounted dignity than a page-boy in a new livery, or a curate in his first canonicals. When they bring their boat up to a township, all that township has got to know about it, or something breaks. It’s the ambition of every boy along the Darling banks to be a river captain, and if that is impossible, to be a supercargo. This is the individual who hangs around and talks affably to the captain as they wharf up, just for all the world as if he owned the whole boat, flag-post, painted name board, and all.
In this fashion, for weeks together, we continued our journey, sometimes resting at stations, but in most instances camping out on the river banks. Talking of camping-out on Darling banks reminds me of the gratitude we continually expressed for having brought our mosquito nets. Anything like the Darling mosquitoes I have never met with elsewhere; they’re as big as camels, and twice as ugly. They seem to bite at the rate of a thousand bites a minute, and each bite brings up a lump as big as a pigeon’s egg — almost 1 Then you scratch them (the bumps, not the mosquitoes), and that makes them worse, after which, if there’s nothing wrong with your constitution, and there have been no defects in your education, you swear, or employ a professional to do it for you. A grey mosquito will, as I have just said, raise a lump like a pigeon’s egg, and profanity as big as a church. He’s also no respecter of persons — he’d just as soon bite a bishop as a pig-stealer. Apart from these annoyances camping on the river is delightful.
It is pleasant in the stillness of the night, lying out on the bank, to hear in the distance the low panting of a steamer coming up against the stream. First you think you hear it, then you think you don’t. Then your companion declares it to be a bullfrog, and you lose your temper contradicting him. But bit by bit the noise draws closer, the panting grows every moment more distinct, then round the bend glare two enormous red eyes, which you know to be her bridge lamps. After that she appears to be stationary for some time, but at length, with a great churning noise and a long trail of sparks, she comes slowly up, grunts and groans majestically by, turns the corner, and that is the last you see of her. The noise of her engines gradually grows more and more faint, and then you curl up in your blankets and once more fall asleep.
Strange to say, for the first two or three hundred miles of our river journey, game was none too plentiful, though a few wild duck could now and again be obtained; owing to the height of the river the majority had migrated on to the lagoons in the back country. To our surprise, also, we saw but few rabbits, in spite of all we had heard of their depredations. But we were to have greater experience of them anon.
After a pleasant rest at Dunlop, one of the finest properties along the whole length of the river, and renowned for its wonderful wool-shed, magnificent head station, and three fine artesian bores, we proceeded on again. Two days later, we had the good fortune to be taken on board by a trading steamer, the ‘Florence Annie,’ and given a free passage to Wilcannia township, the halfway house of our Darling journey. Verily these bushmen are a hospitable folk. It was an enjoyable voyage, and the owner, Mr. Brown, proved a most courteous, interesting, and agreeable man. From him we learnt much of the history of the river.
Wilcannia is a nice little township, situated on the river bank, and possesses a population of 1,287 souls. It boasts a few nice buildings, and its tree-pla............