From Squire to Squatter: A Tale of the Old Land and the New

A deal of the very best land in Australia is covered with woods and forests, and clearing has to be done.

Bob wished his busy little body of a wife to stay behind in Brisbane till he had some kind of a decent crib, as he called it, ready to invite her to.

But Sarah said, “No! Where you go I go. Your crib shall be my crib, Bob, and I shall bake the damper.” This was not very poetical language, but there was a good deal of sound sense about Sarah, even if there was but little poetry.

Well, it did seem at first a disheartening kind of wilderness they had come to, but the site for the homesteads had been previously selected, and after a night’s rest in their rude tents and waggons, work was commenced. Right joyfully too, —

“Down with them! Down with the lords of the forests.”

This was the song of our pioneers. Men shouted and talked, and laughed and joked, saws rasped and axes rang, and all the while duty went merrily on. Birds find beasts, never disturbed before in the solitude of their homes, except by wandering blacks, crowded round – only keeping a safe distance away – and wondered whatever the matter could be. The musical magpies, or laughing jackasses, said they would soon settle the business; they would frighten those new chums out of their wits, and out of the woods. So they started to do it. They laughed in such loud, discordant, daft tones that at times Archie was obliged to put his fingers in his ears, and guns had to be fired to stop the row. So they were not successful. The cockatoos tried the same game; they cackled and skraighed like a million mad hens, and rustled and ruffled their plumage, and flapped their wings and flew, but all to no purpose – the work went on.

The beautiful lorries, parrakeets, and budgerigars took little notice of the intruders, but went farther away, deserting half-built nests to build new ones. The bonnie little long-tailed opossum peeped down from his perch on the gums, looking exceedingly wise, and told his wife that not in all his experience had there been such goings on in the forest lands, and that something was sure to follow it; his wife might mark his words for that. The wonga-wongas grumbled dreadfully; but great hawks flew high in the air, swooping round and round against the sun, as they have a habit of doing, and now and then gave vent to a shrill cry which was more of exultation than anything else. “There will be dead bones to pick before long.” That is what the hawks thought. Snakes now and then got angrily up, puffed and blew a bit, but immediately decamped into the denser cover.

The dingoes kept their minds to themselves until night fell, and the stars came out; the constellation called the Southern Cross spangled the heaven’s dark blue, then the dingoes lifted up their voices and wept; and, oh, such weeping! Whoso has never heard a concert of Australian wild dogs can have no conception of the noise these animals are capable of. Whoso has once heard it, and gone to sleep towards the end of it, will never afterwards complain of the harmless musical reunions of our London cats.

But sleep is often impossible. You have got just to lie in bed and wonder what in the name of mystery they do it for. They seem to quarrel over the key-note, and lose it, and try for it, and get it again, and again go off into a chorus that would “ding doon” Tantallan Castle. And when you do doze off at last, as likely as not, you will dream of howling winds and hungry wolves till it is grey daylight in the morning.

Chapter Nineteen
Burley New Farm

There was so much to be done before things could be got “straight” on the new station, that the days and weeks flew by at a wonderful pace. I pity the man or boy who is reduced to the expedient of killing time. Why if one is only pleasantly and usefully occupied, or engaged in interesting pursuits, time kills itself, and we wonder where it has gone to.

If I were to enter into a minute description of the setting-up of the stock and agricultural farm, chapter after chapter would have to be written, and still I should not have finished. I do not think it would be unprofitable reading either, nor such as one would feel inclined to skip. But as there are a deal of different ways of building and furnishing new places the plan adopted by the three friends might not be considered the best after all. Besides, improvements are taking place every day even in Bush-life. However, in the free-and-easy life one leads in the Bush one soon learns to feel quite independent of the finer arts of the upholsterer.

In that last sentence I have used the adjective “easy;” but please to observe it is adjoined to another hyphenically, and becomes one with it – “free-and-easy.” There is really very little ease in the Bush. Nor does a man want it or care for it – he goes there to work. Loafers had best keep to cities and to city life, and look for their little enjoyments in parks and gardens by day, in smoke-filled billiard-rooms or glaringly-lighted music-halls by night, go to bed at midnight, and make a late breakfast on rusks and soda-water. We citizens of the woods and wilds do not envy them. We go to bed with the birds, or soon after. We go to sleep, no matter how hard our couches may be; and we do sleep too, and wake with clear heads and clean tongues, and after breakfast feel that nothing in the world will be a comfort to us but work. Yes, men work in the Bush; and, strange to say, though they go there young, they do not appear to grow quickly old. Grey hairs may come, and Nature may do a bit of etching on their brows and around their eyes with the pencil of time, but this does not make an atom of difference to their brains and hearts. These get a trifle tougher, that is all, but no older.

Well, of the three friends I think Archie made the best Bushman, though Bob came next, then Harry, who really had developed his powers of mind and body wonderfully, which only just proves that there is nothing after all, even for a Cockney, like rubbing shoulders against a rough world.

A dozen times a week at least Archie mentally thanked his father for having taught him to work at home, and for the training he had received in riding to hounds, in tramping over the fields and moors with Branson, in gaining practical knowledge at the barn-yards, and last, though not least, in the good, honest, useful groundwork of education received from his tutor Walton.

There was something else that Archie never failed to feel thankful to heaven for, and that was the education his mother had given him.

Remember this: Archie was but a rough, harum-scarum kind of a British boy at best, and religious teaching might have fallen on his soul as water falls on a duck’s back, to use a homely phrase. But as a boy he had lived in an atmosphere of refinement. He constantly breathed it till he became imbued with it; and he received the influence also second-hand, or by reflection, from his brother Rupert and his sister.

Often and often in the Bush, around the log fire of an evening, did Archie speak proudly of that beloved twain to his companions. His language really had, at times, a smack of real, downright innocence about it, as when he said to Bob once: “Mind you, Bob, I never was what you might call good. I said, and do say, my prayers, and all the like of that; but Roup and Elsie were so high above me that, after coming in from a day’s work or a day on the hill, it used to be like going into church on a week-day to enter the green parlour. I felt my own mental weakness, and I tried to put off my soul’s roughness with my dirty boots in the kitchen.”

But Archie was now an excellent superintendent of work. He knew when things were being well done, and he determined they should be. Nothing riled him more than an attempt on the part of any of the men to take advantage of him.

They soon came to know him; not as a tyrant, but simply as one who would have things rightly done, and who knew when they were being rightly done, even if it were only so apparently simple a matter as planting a fence-post; for there is a right way and a wrong way of doing that.

The men spoke of him as the young Boss. Harry being ignored in all matters that required field-knowledge.

“We don’t want nary a plumbline,” said a man once, “when the young Boss’s around. He carries a plumbline in his eye.”

Archie never let any man know when he was angry; but they knew afterwards, however, that he had been so from the consequences. Yet with all his strictness he was kind-hearted, and very just. He had the happy gift of being able to put himself in the servant’s place while judging betwixt man and master.

Communications were constantly kept up between the station and the railway, by means of waggons, or drays and saddle-horses. Among the servants were several young blacks. These were useful in many ways, and faithful enough; but required keeping in their places. To be in any way familiar with them was to lose their respect, and they were not of much consequence after that. When completed, the homestead itself was certainly not devoid of comfort, though everything was of the homeliest construction; for no large amount of money was spent in getting it up. A Scotchman would describe it as consisting of “twa butts and a ben,” with a wing at the back. The capital letter L, laid down longways thus – I will give you some notion of its shape. There were two doors in front, and four windows, and a backdoor in the after wing, also having windows. The wing portion of the house contained the kitchen and general sitting-room; the right hand portion the best rooms, ladies’ room included, but a door and passage communicated with these and the kitchen.

This house was wholly built of sawn wood, but finished inside with lath and plaster, and harled outside, so that when roofed over with those slabs of wood, such as we see some old-English church steeples made of, called “shingles,” the building was almost picturesque. All the more so because it was built on high ground, and trees were left around and near it.

The kitchen and wing were par excellence the bachelor apartments, of an evening at all events.

Every thing that was necessary in the way of furnishing found its way into the homestead of Burley New Farm; but nothing else, with the exception of that of the guests’-room. Of this more anon.

The living-house was completed first; but all the time that this was being built men were very busy on the clearings, and the sites were mapped out for the large wool-shed, with huge adjoining yards, where the sheep at shearing-time would be received and seen to.

There were also the whole paraphernalia and buildings constituting the cattle and horse-yards, a killing and milking-yard; and behind these were slab huts, roofed with huge pieces of bark, rudely but most artistically fixed, for the men.

These last had fire-places, and though wholly built of wood, there was no danger of fire, the chimneys being of stone.

Most of the yards and outhouses were separate from each other, and the whole steading was built on elevated ground, the store-hut being not far from the main or dwelling-house.

I hardly know what to liken the contents of this store, or the inside of the place itself, to. Not unlike perhaps the half-deck or fore-cabin of a Greenland ship on the day when stores are being doled out to the men. Or, to come nearer home, if ever the reader has been in a remote and rough part of our own country, say Wales or Scotland, where gangs of navvies have been encamped for a time, at a spot where a new line of railway is being pushed through a gully or glen.

Just take a peep inside. There is a short counter of the rudest description, on which stand scales and weights, measures and knives. Larger scales stand on the floor, and everywhere around you are heaps of stores, of every useful kind you could possibly name or imagine, and these are best divided into four classes – eatables, wearables, luxuries, and tools.

Harry is at home here, and he has managed to infuse a kind of regularity into the place, and takes a sort of pride in knowing where all his wares are stored. The various departments are kept separate. Yonder, for instance, stand the tea, coffee, and cocoa-nibs, and near them the sugar of two kinds, the bags of flour, the cheeses (in boxes), the salt (in casks), soda, soap, and last, but not least, the tobacco and spirits; this last in a place by itself, and well out of harm’s way. Then there is oil and candles – by-and-bye they will make these on the farm – matches – and this brings us to the luxuries – mustard, pepper of various sorts, vinegar, pickles, curry, potted salmon, and meats of many kinds, and bags of rice. Next there is a small store of medicines of the simplest, not to say roughest, sorts, both for man and beast, and rough bandages of flannel and cotton, with a bundle of splints.

Then comes clothing of all kinds – hats, shirts, jackets, boots, shoes, etc. Then tools and cooking utensils; and in a private cupboard, quite away in a corner, the ammunition.

It is unnecessary to add that harness and horse-shoes found a place in this store, or that a desk stood in one corner where account-books were kept, for the men did not invariably pay down on the nail.

I think it said a good deal for Sarah’s courage that she came right away down into the Bush with her “little man,” and took charge of the cooking department on the station, when it was little, if any, better than simply a camp, with waggons for bedrooms, and a morsel of canvas for gentility’s sake.

But please to pop your head inside the kitchen, now that the dwelling-house has been up for some little time. Before you reach the door you will have to do a bit of stepping, for outside nothing is tidied up as yet. Heaps of chips, heaps of stones and sticks and builders’ rubbish, are everywhere. Even when you get inside there is a new smell – a limy odour – to greet you in the passage, but in the kitchen itself all is order and neatness. A huge dresser stands against the wall just under the window. The legs of it are a bit rough to be sure, but nobody here is likely to be hypercritical; and when the dinner-hour arrives, instead of the vegetables, meat, and odds-and-ends that now stand thereon, plates, and even knives and forks, will be neatly placed in a row, and Sarah herself, her cooking apron replaced by a neater and nattier one, will take the head of the table, one of the boys will say a shy kind of grace, and the meal will go merrily on.

On a shelf, slightly raised above the floor, stand rows of clean saucepans, stewpans, and a big, family-looking business of a frying-pan; and on the wall hang bright, shining dish-covers, and a couple of racks and shelves laden with delf.

A good fire of logs burns on the low hearth, and there, among ashes pulled on one side for the purpose, a genuine “damper” is baking, while from a movable “sway” depends a chain and crook, on which latter hangs a pot. This contains corned beef – very well, call it salt if you please. Anyhow, when Sarah lifts the lid to stick a fork into the boiling mess an odour escapes and pervades the kitchen quite appetising enough to make the teeth of a Bushman water, if he had done anything like a morning’s work. There is another pot close by the fire, and in this sweet potatoes are boiling.

It is a warm spring day, and the big window is open to admit the air, else poor Sarah would be feeling rather uncomfortable.

What is “damper”? It is simply a huge, thick cake or loaf, made from extremely well-kneaded dough, and baked in the hot ashes of the hearth. Like making good oat cakes, before a person can manufacture a “damper” properly, he must be in a measure to the manner born. There is a deal in the mixing of the dough, and much in the method of firing, and, after all, some people do not care for the article at all, most useful and handy and even edible though it be. But I daresay there are individuals to be found in the world who would turn up their noses at good oat cake. Ah, well, it is really surprising what the air of the Australian Bush does in the way of increasing one’s appetite and destroying fastidiousness.

But it is near the dinner-hour, and right nimbly Sarah serves it up; and she has just time to lave her face and hands, and change her apron, when in comes Bob, followed by Archie and Harry. Before he sits down Bob catches hold of Sarah by both hands, and looks admiringly into her face, and ends by giving her rosy cheek a kiss, which resounds through the kitchen rafters like the sound of a cattle-man’s whip.

“I declare, Sarah lass,” he says heartily, “you are getting prettier and prettier every day. Now at this very moment your lips and cheeks are as red as peonies, and your eyes sparkle as brightly as a young kangaroo’s; and if any man a stone heavier than myself will make bold to say that I did wrong to marry you on a week’s courtship, I’ll kick him over the river and across the creek. ‘For what we are about to receive, the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen.’ Sit in, boys, and fire away. This beef is delightful. I like to see the red juice following the knife; and the sweet potatoes taste well, if they don’t look pretty. What, Sarah, too much done? Not a bit o’ them.”

The creek that Bob talked about kicking somebody across was a kind of strath or glen not very far from the steading, and lying below it, green and luxuriant at present. It wound away up and down the country for miles, and in the centre of it was a stream or river or burn, well clothed on its banks with bush, and opening out here and there into little lakes or pools. This stream was – so old Bushmen said – never known to run dry.

In the winter time it would at times well merit the name of river, especially when after a storm a “spate” came down, with a bore perhaps feet high, carrying along in its dreadful rush tree trunks, rocks, pieces of bank – everything, in fact, that came in its way, or attempted to withstand its giant power. “Spates,” however, our heroes hoped would come but seldom; for it is sad to see the ruin they make, and to notice afterwards the carcases of sheep and cattle, and even horses, that bestrew the haughs, or banks, and give food to prowling dingoes and birds of the air, especially the ubiquitous crow.

The ordinary state of the water, however, is best described by the word stream or rivulet, while in droughty summers it might dwindle down to a mere burn meandering from pool to pool.

The country all around was plain and forest and rolling hills. It was splendidly situated for grazing of a mixed kind. But our three friends were not to be content with this, and told off the best part of it for future agricultural purposes. Even this was to be but a nucleus, and at this moment much of the land then untilled is yielding abundance of grain.

Not until the place was well prepared for them were cattle bought and brought home. Sheep were not to be thought of for a year or two.

With the cattle, when they began to arrive, Winslow, who was soon to pay the new settlement a visit, sent up a few really good stockmen. And now Archie was to see something of Bush-life in reality.

Chapter Twenty
Runaway Stock – Bivouac in the Bush-Night Scene

Australian cattle have one characteristic in common with some breeds of pigeons, notably with those we call “homers.” They have extremely good memories as to localities, and a habit of “making back,” as it is termed, to the pastures from which they have been driven. This comes to be very awkward at times, especially if a whole herd decamps or takes “a moonlight flitting.”

It would be mere digression to pause to enquire what God-given instinct it is, that enables half-wild cattle to find their way back to their old homes in as straight a line as possible, even when they have been driven to a new station by circuitous routes. Many other animals have this same homing power; dogs for example, and, to a greater extent, cats. Swallows and sea-birds, such as the Arctic gull, and the albatross, possess it in a very high degree; but it is still more wonderfully displayed in fur seals that, although dispersed to regions thousands and thousands of miles away during winter, invariably and unerringly find their road back to a tiny group of wave and wind-swept islands, four in number, called the Prybilov group, in the midst of the fog-shrouded sea of Behring. The whole question wants a deal of thinking out, and life is far too short to do it in.

One morning, shortly after the arrival of the first great herd of stock, word was brought to head-quarters that the cattle had escaped by stampede, and were doubtless on their way to the distant station whence they had been bought.

It was no time to ask the question, Who was in fault? Early action was necessary, and was provided for without a moment’s hesitation.

I rather think that Archie was glad to have an opportunity of doing a bit of rough riding, and showing off his skill in horse management. He owned what Bob termed a clipper. Not a very handsome horse to look at, perhaps, but fleet enough and strong enough for anything. As sure-footed as a mule was this steed, and as regards wisdom, a perfect equine Solomon.

At a suggestion of Bob’s he had been named Tell, in memory of the Tell of other days. Tell had been ridden by Archie for many weeks, so that master and horse knew each other well. Indeed Archie had received a lesson or two from the animal that he was not likely to forget; for one day he had so far forgotten himself as to dig the rowel into Tell’s sides, when there was really no occasion to do anything of the sort. This was more than the horse could stand, and, though he was not an out-and-out buck-jumper, nevertheless, a moment after the stirrup performance, Archie found himself making a voyage of discovery, towards the moon apparently. He descended as quickly almost as he had gone up, and took the ground on his shoulder and cheek, which latter was well skinned. Tell had stood quietly by looking at him, and as Archie patted him kindly, he forgave him on the spot, and permitted a remount.

Archie and Bob hardly permitted themselves to swallow breakfast, so anxious were they to join the stockmen and be off.

As there was no saying when they might return, they did not go unprovided for a night or two out. In front of their saddles were strapped their opossum rugs, and they carried also a tin billy each, and provisions, in the shape of tea, damper, and cooked corned beef; nothing else, save a change of socks and their arms.

Bob bade his wife a hurried adieu, Archie waved his hand, and next minute they were over the paddocks and through the clearings and the woods, in which the trees had been ring-barked, to permit the grass to grow. And such tall grass Archie had never before seen as that which grew in some parts of the open.

“Is it going to be a long job, think you, Bob?”

“I hardly know, Archie. But Craig is here.”

“Oh, yes, Gentleman Craig, as Mr Winslow insists on calling him! You have seen him.”

“Yes; I met him at Brisbane. And a handsome chap he is. Looks like a prince.”

“Isn’t it strange he doesn’t rise from the ranks, as one might say; that he doesn’t get on?”

“I’ll tell you what keeps him back,” said Bob, reining his horse up to a dead stop, that Archie might hear him all the easier.

“I’ll tell you what keeps him back now, before you see him. I mustn’t talk loud, for the very birds might go and tell the fellow, and he doesn’t like to be ’minded about it. He drinks!”

“But he can’t get drink in the Bush.”

“Not so easily, though he has been known before now to ride thirty miles to visit a hotel.”

“A shanty, you mean.”

“Well, they call ’em all hotels over here, you must remember.”

“And would he just take a drink and come back?”

Bob laughed.

“Heaven help him, no. It isn’t one drink, nor ten, nor fifty he takes, for he makes a week or two of it.”

“I hope he won’t take any such long rides while he is with us.”

“No. Winslow says we are sure of him for six months, anyhow. Then he’ll go to town and knock his cheque down. But come on, Craig and his lads will be waiting for us.”

At the most southerly and easterly end of the selection they met Gentleman Craig himself.

He rode forward to meet them, lifting his broad hat, and reining up when near enough. He did this in a beautifully urbane fashion, that showed he had quite as much respect for himself as for his employers. He was indeed a handsome fellow, and his rough Garibaldian costume fitted him, and set him out as if he had been some great actor.

“This is an awkward business,” he began, with an easy smile; “but I think we’ll soon catch the runaways up.”

“I hope so,” Bob said.

“Oh, it was all my fault, because I’m boss of my gang, you know. I ought to have known better, but a small mob of stray beasts got among ours, and by-and-by there was a stampede. It was dirty-dark last night, and looked like a storm, so there wouldn’t have been an ounce of use in following them up.”

He flicked his long whip half saucily, half angrily, as he spoke.

“Well, never mind,” Bob replied, “we’ll have better luck next, I’ve no doubt.”

Away they went now at a swinging trot, and on crossing the creek they met Craig’s fellows.

They laid their horses harder at it now, Bob and Archie keeping a bit in the rear, though the latter declared that Tell was pulling like a young steam-engine.

“Why,” cried Archie at last, “this beast means to pull my arms out at the shoulders. I always thought I knew how to hold the reins till now.”

“They have a queer way with them, those bush-ranging horses,” said Bob; “but I reckon you’ll get up to them at last.”

“If I were to give Tell his head, he would soon be in the van.”

“In the van? Oh, I see, in the front!”

“Yes; and then I’d be lost. Why these chaps appear to know every inch of the ground. To me it is simply marvellous.”

“Well, the trees are blazed.”

“I’ve seen no blazed trees. Have you?”

“Never a one. I say, Craig.”

“Hullo!” cried the head stockman, glancing over his shoulder.

“Are you steering by blazed trees?”

“No,” he laughed; “by tracks. Cattle don’t mind blazed trees much.”

Perhaps Bob felt green now, for he said no more. Archie looked about him, but never a trail nor track could he decipher.

Yet on they rode, helter-skelter apparently, but cautiously enough for all that. Tell was full of fire and fun; for, like Verdant Green’s horse, when put at a tiny tree trunk in his way, he took a leap that would have carried him over a five-bar-gate.

There was many a storm-felled tree in the way also and many a dead trunk, half buried in ferns; there were steep stone-clad hills, difficult to climb, but worse to descend, and many a little rivulet to cross; but nothing could interfere with the progress of these hardy horses.

Although the sun was blazing hot, no one seemed to feel it much. The landscape was very wild, and very beautiful; but Archie got weary at last of its very loveliness, and was not one whit sorry when the afternoon halt was called under the pleasant shade of trees, and close by the banks of a rippling stream.

The horses were glad to drink as well as the men, then they were hobbled, and allowed to browse while all hands sat down to eat.

Only damper and beef, washed down by a billyful of the clear water, which, strange to say, was wonderfully cool.

When the sun was sinking low on the forest-clad horizon, there was a joyful but half-suppressed shout from Craig and his men. Part of the herd was in sight, quietly browsing up a creek.

Gentleman Craig pointed them out to Archie; but he had to gaze a considerable time before he could really distinguish anything that had the faintest resemblance to cattle.

“Your eye is young yet to the Bush,” said Craig, laughing, but not in any unmannerly way.

“And now,” he continued, “we must go cautiously or we spoil all.”

The horsemen made a wide détour, and got between the bush and the mob; and the ground being favourable, here it was determined to camp for the night. The object of the stockmen was not to alarm the herd, but to prevent them from getting any farther off till morning, when the march homewards would commence. With this intent, log fires were built here and there around the herd; and once these were well alight the mob was considered pretty safe. All, however, had been done very quietly; and during the livelong night, until grey dawn broke over the hills, the fellows would have to keep those fires burning.

Supper was a more pleasing meal, for there was the addition of tea; after which, with their feet to the log fire – Bob and Craig enjoying a whiff of tobacco – they lay as much at their ease, and feeling every whit as comfortable, as if at home by the “ingleside.” Gentleman Craig had many stories and anecdotes to relate of the wild life he had had, that both Archie and Bob listened to with delight.

“I’ll take one more walk around,” said Craig, “then stretch myself on my downy bed. Will you come with me, Mr Broadbent?”

“With pleasure,” said Archie.

“Mind how you step then. Keep your whip in your hand, but on no account crack it. We have to use our intellect versus brute force. If the brute force became alarmed and combined, then our intellect would go to the wall, there would be another stampede, and another long ride to-morrow.”

Up and down in the starlight, or by the fitful gleams of the log fires, they could see the men moving like uneasy ghosts. Craig spoke a word or two kindly and quietly as he passed, and having made his inspection, and satisfied himself that all was comparatively safe, he returned with Archie to the fire.

Bob was already fast asleep, rolled snugly in his blanket, with his head in the hollow of his upturned saddle; and Archie and Craig made speed to follow his example.

As for Craig, he was soon in the land of Nod. He was a true Bushman, and could go off sound as a bell the moment he stretched himself on his “downy bed,” as he called it.

But Archie felt the situation far too new to permit of slumber all at once. He had never lain out thus before; and the experience was so delightful to him that he felt justified in lying awake a bit, and looking at the stars. The distant dingoes began to howl, and more than once some great dark bird flew over the camp, high overhead, but on silent wings.