Missing Friends

I left Roma again. There was nothing to do there, scarcely a prospect of getting enough to eat. I rambled away with my two horses out west, and I am now anxious, for obvious reasons, not to particularize too closely where I went.

It had now become of more importance to me to save the lives of my horses than to find anything to do for myself. I travelled for a month or more at slow stages, and was now right away in the "Never Never" country. Occasionally I would find a little for the horses to eat, but very often it was scanty fare they had. I arrived at a station where shearing was in full swing, and as both grass and water seemed more plentiful there than I had seen it for hundreds of miles, I turned the horses out for a month's spell, while I made myself comfortable in my tent and occupied myself by reading such literature as I could borrow from the shearers on the station.

Among the shearers was a man with whom I grew to be on very friendly terms. He was a big, strong, good-looking young fellow, about thirty years of age, and seemed to me at all times so polite and well-informed that I was always seeking his company. What interested me most in him was a peculiarly sad expression in his face, and I often wondered at the cause of it. When the shearing was over all the shearers went in a body to the nearest hotel, as is customary, to have a jollification. It happened to be located the way I had come, so, though they did not actually pass me, I saw them ride away, and thought it rather shabby of my acquaintance not to come and say good-bye to me. I was mistaken, however, as I shortly afterwards saw him coming up to the tent on a really good horse and leading another.

"Well," said I, "are you off? I thought you had left with the others; how is it you did not?"

"No," said he, "I know my weakness. If I had gone with them I should probably have got on the spree and drunk all I possess. But I am now already pretty well-to-do, because I have a cheque for over thirty pounds and these two horses besides. All I want is just another shed, and then I will make tracks for Ipswich where my people live."

"But," said I, "there is a public-house this way too."

"Ah, yes," cried he, and winked, "but they do not catch me this time. I have worked for the publicans for seven years, but I will never enter such a place again."

With that we parted, and two or three days after I got my horses up and followed along the same road that he had taken. About noon I came to the hotel. I did not intend to go in because the money I had with me was getting scarce and I did not wish to draw on what I had in the bank. I carried, too, all sorts of necessaries on my horses and wanted for nothing. But when the publican saw me passing the door, he came running out.

"Good-morning, young fellow; good-morning. By Jove, that is a splendid horse you have there. Are you travelling far? Surely you don't mean to take your horses along in this weather. Why it is too hot for a white man, too hot entirely. Come in and have a bit of dinner; it is all ready. I won't charge you; I never charged a b– man for a feed yet. I do not think it right, do you?"

Pressed in this way, I went inside; but my suspicions that was a robbers' den in disguise were aroused, and if I had not felt sure of myself I should probably have preferred to dash the spurs into the horses and tear away; but although I thanked him for his hospitality and agreed with him that it was very wrong to charge a man for food, yet I made up my mind that he would have to be clever to outwit me. On the verandah sat a forbidding-looking man on his swag, and I saw at once that he was a poor swagsman who need have no fear of being robbed. In the bar were three men standing drinking, but yet moderately sober. The publican began to bustle about behind the bar. I kept one eye on him and one on the horses. Scarcely five minutes had elapsed before a blackfellow made his appearance outside, and began to lead my horses away. I went outside and took them from him.

"Are you taking my horses away?" cried I; "don't do it again." I used a little more persuasion, but it does not look well in print.

"Master said I take him Yarraman along-a-paddock," whined the blackfellow.

Now the publican came out again.

"What is the matter?" cried he. "I told him to take and give the horses a feed; they look as if they needed it."

"Not at all," said I; "they have had a month's spell, and I can scarcely hold them."

"All right, you know best. Are you going to have a drink?"

"Yes," I said, "I don't mind."

"What is it going to be?"

"Rum," said I.

"Right you are. I almost thought you were a teetotaler."

I watched him closely, and saw he picked out a particular glass, and before I let him fill it I took my handkerchief up and wiped it carefully all around the inside. I looked at him and he at me while I did it. I also noticed that he tapped the compound from the ordinary cask, and I was therefore not afraid to swallow it, nor did it do me any harm. The reason I was so careful to wipe the glass was that I knew it to be a common trick of dishonest publicans, when they see a man coming along the road whom they wish to catch, to take a dirty pipe and blow some of the thick, foul-smelling stuff that it contains into an empty glass, and then have it ready for the customer. A very little dose will make the strongest man intoxicated for the whole day, and if it is not nicely adjusted, but just a speck too much, it will knock a man down in a dead swoon for many hours. I had been told this on the gold diggings by more than one person at the time I kept shanty there myself, and I knew that there were people who travelled about the country selling to publicans the secrets of tricking and falsifying spirits. I, therefore, knew pretty well where to look for danger, and where I might take the risk; but now dinner was announced, and we all went into the dining-room. On the floor of the room I saw a man who was lying there smeared all over with blood and filth. Still I recognized him at once as my friend the shearer. I went up and shook him until I got a little life into him, and he sat up and recognized me. "Hullo," bawled he, "is that you? Ain't I a fool? Publican, give me my horses, I want to go with this young fellow. I am going away this afternoon. Don't go away without me."

"All right," said the publican; "I will see to get the black boy to find your horses for you, but he says one has got out of the paddock."

Then we had dinner—that is, I had a good meal; but the drunken shearer could not touch food, and presented a terrible picture of sickness and misery. By this time I was not on good terms with the publican; but I did not care. I only studied how I could get the other poor fellow away, and I could not as yet see any way. As soon as we came from the table he staggered into the bar and called for drinks for all hands. The publican then called his wife, four or five children, a seamstress, the servant-girl, myself, the man in the yard, the black boy, the bushman I had seen, the traveller on the verandah, who had had no dinner, and himself, and they all had their drinks! It was a shilling a glass. Then the shearer asked him to be kind and let him have the balance of his cheque, which, it appeared, he had given the publican to change for him when he came; but that good Samaritan simply told him that he would not do such a thing, as he was too drunk to take care of money. When he went away he should have it. The shearer, who was getting more intoxicated again after this last glass, hung over the counter, and, in a plaintive sort of way, cried, "I am a – fool! Never mind, let's have another. Here, fill 'em up again."

I could do no good, so I went away without paying for my dinner. I met the shearer two years after, when he told me all about it. It appeared that he had tried to pass the place in the same manner as I, and that the publican had persuaded him to come in. He had not liked to take his dinner for nothing, and had given the publican the cheque he had for changing. He had been promised the money in half an hour, but was shortly after intoxicated, and had never been able to get either the horses or the money again. After having been in the state I saw him for about three weeks, the publican presented him with a bill, from which it appeared that he owed him for "refreshments" more than the amount of the cheque added to the value of horses, saddles, and bridles. The publican had, therefore, kept the horses, but had kindly given him a bottle of grog to take with him on the road when he went away! This process is called in bush parlance, "lambing down," and is going on every day, year after year!

I had not gone far from the hotel before I saw a man coming after me. He called me to stop, which I did, and when he came closer I perceived that it was the man who had been sitting on his swag in the verandah at the hotel. He said he had come after me because he had neither rations nor money, and did not know how to get along the road unless I would be good enough to let him travel with me. He wanted to go to – station, and try to get some shearing to do. It happened that I intended to turn off the road about half a mile further on, and that according to the place to which he said he was going we should travel in almost opposite directions, and I told him so. I said also that if he was pushed I would help him with a few rations, but that I had not time to accommodate the pace of the horses to his walk, as I had already been travelling for a much longer time than I liked. Of course he said he would be glad of anything, and so I got off the horse and had a fire lighted, by which we made some tea, and he had his dinner out of my provisions. After the meal he suddenly made up his mind that he might as well go the same road as I, and try to get a job at a station which we should pass some forty miles from where we then stood. I did not like this much, because he seemed to me a man whose company I should not appreciate, but, as the loneliness of the bush always appeared to me to engender a sort of fellowship towards whoever is there, I did not find it easy nor did I deem it right to say I would have nothing to do with him. On the contrary, I said that we would push on together then for the day, and that I would walk while he put his swag on my saddle-horse. In this way we now went several miles, and my travelling companion had very little to say. He seemed to know the road to perfection, and about four o'clock in the afternoon he suggested that we should camp at a certain spot at which we had arrived, but about a hundred yards off the road. I objected. I said he was free himself to camp or not as he chose, but if he wanted to travel with me he would have to walk a good deal further, as I had by no means come as far yet as I considered a day's journey required. After that we started again, but my new friend seemed frightfully morose, and had not a word to say. As the horse he held was a better leader than mine he gradually forged ahead of me, and try as I would I could not keep up with him. I was just wishing myself well rid of him when I saw him suddenly turn off the road, leading the horse after him, and although I called again and again, he neither turned round nor answered me until he came to a deep water-hole about a mile off the road. Here he took the load off the horse, and hobbled it out. I was not only angry, but I was also to a certain extent afraid. I had already agreed with myself that I could not lie down to sleep alongside of him; but what, of all things, did he mean by leading me to this place? As soon as I came up I asked him what he meant, and how he dared to take my horse off the road. I had taken the bridle belonging to the saddle-horse to go and catch it again, for I intended now at all hazards to get rid of him. At this juncture he came towards me.

"Here is grass, and here is water," cried he, "and out of this spot shall neither I nor any – German or – Dutchman come to-night. Let go that bridle!"

Then he grasped the bridle. You know the old proverb that "There is a time when patience ceases to be a virtue," and in my opinion that time had now arrived. I had not been so long in Queensland without learning to defend myself, so I closed with him. What a fearful struggle we had! As far as I was concerned, I felt as if it was a struggle for life, and I fought accordingly. Now we were up, now down. Sometimes I was on the top of him and sometimes I was under, but whatever happened I must not give in, because I felt sure I should receive small mercy if I did. At last I had him. My hands were round his throat, and my knees on his chest, while I felt his hands slide powerless off me. It was not victory yet. If I let him go he might renew the attack, so I pressed his throat until he was nearly black in the face, and I sat on him as heavily as I could, because I was angry, and when at last I let him go, it was not before I thought I had taken all his fighting humour out of him. While I loaded my horse again I called him all the names I thought it probable would insult him most, in case he might have any honour and shame in him, and at last I threw his swag at his head and cried, "There, you old loafer!"

Then I got on the horse and rode away; nor did I stop that night before I had put fully twenty miles between him and me.

I was now following down the – River, towards the town of –, which I was anxious to reach as soon as possible. The weather had so far continued fearfully dry, and the heat was every day intense, but when I was within ninety miles of the township it began to rain. It rained as if it intended to make up for a two years' drought. The river I followed was nothing but a dry sand-bed when the rain began, but in three or four days it became a roaring torrent. I saw that we were in for a first-class flood and became anxious, as the country on which I was camped seemed to me very flat. Just as I had made up my mind that such was the case I met a party of stockmen, or, more correctly, they came to my tent. They had been out helping to shift some shepherds and their sheep to rising ground, and they assured me that the place I was in would be flooded. As they directed me to what they thought a safe spot, I shifted my tent at once to that place. It was a low, narrow ridge about a mile from the river. Here I prepared myself to weather it out. Next morning when I got up, I saw the river much nearer than the evening before. During the day it rose on all sides, and before evening again I was a complete prisoner on about ten acres of land, while the water roared and hissed on all sides of me as far as the eye could reach. This state of affairs lasted about three weeks. Anything more appallingly lonely than to sit there in the tent, and look out on the awe-inspiring sight of the flood with its swiftly running, destructive water cannot be conceived. As I had but little room for exercise in my prison I could not sleep at night, and so I would sit and sing or play on the flute, and think of all sorts of things. The waters did not go down at the same time as the rain ceased, and I had it all to myself some beautiful moonlight nights. I had heard the stockmen speak about an old shepherd who, with his sheep, was camped on a sort of island, which was formed by the river opposite the place I was in, and about a mile and a half distant. He was, therefore, my nearest neighbour. I could hear him at night sometimes felling trees for exercise, and occasionally he would answer me when I cooeed. Little did it matter to him whether the flood was on or not. At ordinary times he would probably never see any one for weeks or months, as no one could have any business there excepting the ration-carrier once a week, and the shepherd, as a rule, did not see him, as he was away with his sheep when the carrier arrived in his hut. I used to speculate as to who he was—an old man, with wife and family dead, perhaps. What a sad existence! Or, worse still, an old bachelor, crusty and tired. Surely he would have some one he longed to see, and who longed for him! How many years, thought I, had he been there, or in places like that? What did he do with his money when he got it once a year? Would he go with it to the nearest hotel, and as he saw other men wonder why they were not as glad to see him as he to see them? Would he purchase their good-will with grog? What else could he do, or was he likely to do? Anyhow, when it was all spent, and he would get angry when people would have no more to do with him, would he be kicked out? Would he then come back here for another year? What else could he do? I have, among shepherds, seen many men who must have been what is called well educated. They count in their ranks both lawyers and parsons, but disappointed and embittered silence is generally the stamp of them all. Sometimes the reverse is the case; then they will talk as if they could never stop. I like solitude myself to a certain extent, but it must surely be an unnatural life for any man to lead quite alone in the bush.

When at last the floods subsided I had the greatest trouble in making my way, because there would be the most treacherous boggy holes where one least expected them. I had also fared hard on very short rations, so as to make what I had last until I could purchase more, and when I started away from my camping-place I had only one more loaf of bread; all the rest was gone. I was, therefore, very sorry to hear at the nearest station that they would sell me nothing whatever, and when I came to the next one again it was just as bad. I travelled for some days in this way, and had had scarcely what would make half a meal for each day, when at last I arrived at a place only twenty-four miles from town where I should have to cross the river—if I could—so as to get on the main road leading into the settlement. It was about ten o'clock in the morning when I neared this place. It was only a small cattle station, but I thought that whatever happened I must try to get some rations here. I came along at a pretty brisk gallop, but when I was about twenty chains from the houses which formed the place my horses shied violently at a man who was lying in the middle of the road. I was, on the spur of the moment, put out of temper, and began to rate the fellow for choosing his camping-place there.

"Oh, let me lie!" he cried. "Accursed be the day I came to Queensland! I have laid myself down to die here. Shall I not be allowed to lie? Leave me alone. O God, O God!"

I looked closer at him. It seemed that he was in earnest, and the wonder was that he was not dead already, as he was lying there in the terrible sun without the least attempt to get into the shade. He was a short, slightly built man and had a terribly emaciated, woe-begone face. It took a long time and much persuasion before I could get him to tell me what was the matter. Then he said he was dying from hunger. "Pshaw," I said, "right here in front of the station! I am hungry too, but in half an hour I shall be back to you with something to eat."

He laughed bitterly. "Have you got it with you?" said he. "No; but I have money, and I will buy some up here." "You might save yourself the trouble to ask for it," said he; "you will get nothing." "Why," cried I, "I will tell them that a man is dying with hunger outside the door." "They know it. The squatter hunted me yesterday when I told him that I could not cross the river or get further without food. Oh, accursed Queensland, and the day I saw it first! Let me lie; I only want to die."

I could not understand it, and I came to the conclusion that it must be the man's own fault, and that the people on the station had no idea about the despairing state he was in. I looked at the river. It was swollen yet, and not fordable on foot, but I had no fear but that I could get over with the horses, and I was, therefore, in a position to promise him that he should be with me in town that same evening. On hearing that he brightened up a little, but I was myself so hungry that I thought I would go up to the station and get some food for both of us. I therefore hobbled out the pack-horse after the swag was off him, and rode up to the place, promising my despairing friend to be back to him with all possible speed. When I came into the yard my horse made a dead stop outside an old stable. I got off, and looking into the stable saw another man lying on his face in one of the stalls. "Halloa," thought I, "it appears that all the people here are off their legs!" and I sang out to him, asking him whether he was dying of hunger too. "No; but I am blind," said he. "Who is that?" I told him I was a traveller, and that I just wanted to buy a few rations. "It is not you who were here yesterday?" inquired he. "No," said I, "that poor fellow is lying out in the road, and says he is dying for hunger. Surely it has not come to that!" "I was awfully sorry for that man yesterday," cried he, "and only that I cannot see at all, for I got the sand-blight a fortnight ago, I should have given him something." Then, as with a sudden inspiration, he said, "Are you his mate?" No, I was not his mate, I was only sorry for him and very hungry myself. "Will you swear you will give him the half of what I will give you?" Yes, I would swear. "All right! Then look in that other stall there under the bags and you will find a piece of bread, but remember he is to have the half." "Yes, yes," cried I, while I looked under the bags and found about half a pound of stale bread. "But are you really so very hard up here? Surely you must have plenty of beef." "So we have," said he, "but I have been blind for two weeks and cannot kill a beast if we run out, and the super himself is a bad hand. We are nearly out of flour and everything else, and there is a party of fencers cut off by the flood that we expect in now every day. We must keep something for them; still, that super is a skunk, or he would have given the man a piece of beef, but he won't give anything or sell either, so there is an end to it. You might save yourself the trouble of asking him. Are you gone?" "No," said I, "I am here yet. I am only looking at an old grey-bearded man who is coming out of the house and putting a saddle on a horse." "That is he." "Is he the only one at the place besides yourself?" "Yes, unless you reckon the old woman in the kitchen." "Could I not get round her after he is away?" "Not you; you will get nothing out of either of them."

I then went up to the squatter and saluted him. Would he kindly sell a few rations? "No, I will do nothing of the sort," cried he. "You do not know how short we are here. I have got no rations." "But," said I, "you surely do not know that there is a man lying out there on the road who says that he is dying of hunger. Just sell me a piece of beef." "Dying of hunger. Ha! ha! ha! that is too good. Why, he is a regular loafer. He was here for rations a fortnight ago, and he was here yesterday. Let him go into town. I cannot keep him."

"That is all very well," said I, "and I cannot pretend to say what the man is. But how can you get to town, when you cannot cross the river? He told me he has been lying about in all this rain and flood, and the wonder to me is that he is not dead already." "Is that your horse?" inquired he, pointing to where I left it standing. "Yes." "Well, then, just take my advice and get into town yourself." "And won't you sell me a piece of meat?" "No." "Not if a man were dying of hunger?" "Don't talk to me about dying of hunger. It is too rich, it is indeed! Good-morning." With that he rode away, and left me standing there meditating upon what he had said and at free liberty to decide in my own mind whether, after all, I had any right to expect people in a place like that to provide the necessaries of life for travellers.

But one cannot argue with the stomach, and, ravenously hungry as I was, my sympathy was with myself and with the man whom I left out on the road, and I therefore thought I would make one more attack, this time on the old woman in the kitchen, who, during my conversation with the super, had twice come round the corner to empty slops, and who, I suppose, as a mark of the respect in which she held me, had thrown them so close to me that it had sprinkled me all over. She did not look very hospitable, but I had at that time great faith in my power to charm the fair sex, or, as Englishmen less gallantly call them, the weaker sex. I, therefore, wreathed my face in smiles and put myself into the most graceful position I could assume, while I knocked at the kitchen door. No one answered my knock, so I went inside, still retaining my charming appearance. On the other side of the kitchen stood a row of saucepans with something cooking in them, which emitted an odour that did not go far to prove the theory of want raging in the place. Here is my luck again, thought I, I will get a good meal at last. The old lady now came running in from one of the rooms—a most forbidding object to make love to! "You can't get no rations here," cried she. "Clear out of the kitchen!" Then she took up a piece of firewood and struck at me with it. How could any one expect me to look happy under the circumstances? I knew I was getting to look ugly. Then I pulled out my large knife and rolled my eyes in my head. That seemed to please her. She now only mildly protested, while I took the lid off one of the saucepans and lifted out five or six pounds of meat, with which I made my escape. When I came out with this to the traveller on the road his joy was a pleasure to look at. He could not understand how I had got it. So weak was he that he cried like a baby.