Wentworth — The Murray River — The Australian Irrigation Colonies — Morgan — Adelaide Again.
THE town of Wentworth is situated about a quarter of a mile above the junction of the Murray river with the little larger Darling, and, but for being a little larger than the usual run, is a typical bush township. She boasts a fine main street, a superabundance of hotels, a substantial gaol, a court house, several churches, a fire brigade, and a population of 801 souls. We explored the main street, sampled the hotels, visited the gaol (not professionally), climbed to the top of the fire tower, took the churches for granted, and carried away a good opinion of as many of the 801 souls as we were made acquainted with. It was a warm day, 114° in the shadow of the stone verandah of the court house. A bulldog lay panting on the doormat of the police office; he said it was quite hot enough for him; as for us, we were not only roasted but a trifle overdone.
Hospitality and conviviality are the watchwords of the Wentworthians, and if we had accepted all the invitations we received, we should have been hopelessly incapable before we had been an hour in the place.
Fortunately, however, just before sundown the River Murray Steam Navigation Company’s boat ‘Nellie’ puts in an appearance round the bend, and after describing a stately circle draws up at the town wharf. She is a magnificent, white-painted, three-decked affair; the engines and crew are located on the first deck, the saloon and passengers on the second, while a smoking room and the wheel house are situated high up aloft, almost on a level with the funnel. Everything is up to date, even to the extent of a gorgeous name plate and a stewardess. As soon as she is alongside (the boat, not the stewardess) we step aboard and introduce ourselves. The captain has instructions to look after us, and we place ourselves under his care forthwith.
After tea, in the eye of one of the most glorious sunsets I have ever seen, a sunset which streaks the sky and river into a perfect kaleidoscope of ever-changing colours, we return on board, and the order is given to ‘cast loose.’ With a tinkling of falling water, the head and stern lines are thrown off, somebody sings out ‘All clear astern,’ and the ‘Nellie’ wheels majestically round into mid-stream, whistling furiously. The captain takes the wheel, the stewardess throws a farewell kiss ashore, and we ascend to the smoking deck, draw chairs forrard of the wheel house, light our pipes, and prepare to enjoy the beauties of the evening.
It is indeed a glorious night. Hardly a sound save the throbbing of the engines and the splashing of the paddle wheels, somewhere deep down in the mysterious regions beneath us, breaks the stillness. The evening star is just beginning to twinkle, a last lingering touch of sunset lies low upon the horizon, and on either hand the reflections in the mirror-like water surpass belief. Trees, cows, boats, and citizens are all reproduced with a faithfulness to detail bordering on the magical.
About five minutes after leaving the wharf we reach the point where the mighty Darling joins the still mightier Murray, which, thus reinforced, continues her journey to the sea nearly six hundred miles distant. Strange to say, after their junction, for some reason of their own, the waters refuse to assimilate, and on this account, for many miles, that on one bank is of a sombre muddy hue, while that on the other is of a bluer and much more transparent colour. It is as though each is struggling to maintain to the very last the supremacy it has so long enjoyed.
Owing to the heavy floods all along the valley of the Darling, she (the Darling) is much the bigger river. In fact, the Murray, in summer time, is hardly navigable above the junction. For miles ahead gleaming patches of white sand bestrew the course, and in and out of these treacherous banks we wind our way with wondrous delicacy. One moment we are close in shore, so close that the boughs of the trees overhang our decks, only the next to be far out in the centre of the stream, dashing along at a comparatively furious pace. It is dangerous work, and our captain cheers us with the news that we shall probably go aground two or three times before we get to Mildura; in fact, just as he finishes speaking, there is a sound of much ringing in the engine room below, steam is suddenly shut off, and the next moment we are grating grimly over a sandbank. But this is only a narrow shoal, and in less than a minute we are back again in deep water, dashing along in and out of the treacherous patches as fast as ever. It is a wonderful exhibition of steering, and we thoroughly enjoy it.
When the moon rises and reveals the dense primeval bush on either hand, the long stretch of river, and the weird grey patches of sand, the scene is impressively beautiful. But every moment the navigation is becoming more and more difficult, till presently the skipper, being afraid to attempt a certain channel without daylight, decides to tie up at the next wood pile. Taking his advice, we determine to turn in and endeavour to obtain some rest before the mosquitoes find us out; but we are too late, our comfortable cabins are chock full of the pests. We scratch and swear, swear and scratch, half the night. When they have worked their wicked will, and there is not a square inch of our anatomy unbitten, we fall asleep. It is hard upon four o’clock when next we wake.
Then, hearing voices on the smoking deck we ascend thither, to discover a small coterie of pyjama-clad travellers taking advantage of the cool. The steamer is alongside another bank, and it is only on inquiry that we find that we are at our destination — Mildura. However, in this dim light (it wants an hour to sunrise) nothing can be seen of the township, so we join the circle, and exchange ideas on men and places for another hour, returning to our cabins just as the east is becoming suffused with the rosy herald of another day.
The view of Mildura obtainable from the river is certainly not beautiful, nor, I must say, is it calculated to impress upon a stranger the fact that he has arrived at the far famed Australian Irrigation
Colonies. A high hill hides the town, and the only buildings to be seen are the galvanised iron sheds ot the company’s engineering works, the top of Messrs, Chaffey’s office, the roof of the splendid new coffee palace, and the residences of Messrs. W. B. & Geo. Chaffey, on the summit of the hill.
After breakfast we climb this hill and approach the office, pausing in the garden to admire the wonderful wealth of flowers and shrubs, and to listen to the cool splashing of the fountain. A pleasant office this, surrounded by a deep verandah, over which a luxuriant creeper twines its sinuous green arms.
As soon as we are announced, Mr. Waddingham (Messrs. Chaffey’s manager) hastens forth to receive us, and in a few moments introduces us to his principal (Mr. W. B. Chaffey) who welcomes us to Mildura, while at the same time he refers, in congratulatory terms, to our journey across the Continent.
After a brief delay, consequent upon Mr. Chaffey being called away on some business connected with the late unfortunate water troubles (which have had such a disastrous effect upon this struggling community), we are invited to accompany him on a drive round the settlement. This invitation we gladly accept.
In order that we may see and understand everything from the beginning to the end, we start with the great pumping stations. Here we behold these tremendous triple expansion monsters hard at work raising the water to the reservoirs and channels, in some cases a lift of eighty feet. Then, having made ourselves conversant with the means of raising the precious fluid, and admired the buildings themselves, which are admirably built and kept, we pass on to the channels which carry the water as great a distance as fifteen miles in every direction, and assist in irrigating no less than 10,000 acres of land. Then, resuming our drive, we inspect the holdings or blocks themselves, and in so doing drive along many fine roads and streets, each bordered with thriving trees, through whose interlacing boughs may be seen many neat, well-kept villas and tiny homesteads. Wonderful places are these selections, varying considerably in size, and wonderful is the growth to be observed upon them. Apricots, peaches, figs, oranges, lemons, vines, all seem to thrive in the same luxuriant fashion, while every inch of ground testifies to the owner’s unbounded interest and never-ceasing care.
On either hand we see people hard at work. To our right we have a new comer clearing the timber from his patch, another ploughing, or grading his land for the reception of the water. Across the road, on our left, peeps forth the bungalow of an older colonist. Further down the same street is a merry party of young Englishmen, hoeing for their lives; while on a corner block we are fortunate enough to catch a retired Indian official, working as though his very existence depended on it. They are all industrious, and if we may judge by appearances, they are all contented with the prospects of the place.
In order that we may gather some idea of what the land was like before t............