LETTER VII.
“Long’s,” 6th October.
I must go on with the story of our journey from where I left off—just as we were starting from Dongarra. That first day’s stage was not specially interesting, nor was the place we slept at very clean or comfortable. One of the gentlemen slept in the chaff-cutter, preferring clean straw and his own blankets, under a shed, to the look of the bed offered to him. I believe the driver and orderly took the seats out of the van and slept in that! However, one good effect of the rather rough accommodation was that we all got up in the dark and had packed ourselves again into the van and were ready to start with the first gleam of daylight.
After a mile or so we entered upon the great “sand plains,” as they are called, but this is really a strip of the Sahara or Desert which lies in the centre of Australia; a little corner or tail of it comes down here and makes a narrow belt, less than 70 miles across, between the capital land round Dongarra, and the good sheep-country at the other side of the sand-belt. There is no way of escaping it, and all that the Government have been able to do is to dig a well and fence it in, and put rude hollow tree-troughs for the sheep and cattle to drink at, wherever they could find water. So it is just possible to get stock across this bit of desert, especially after the winter rains, when the wells are full. Then, every here and there, some 10 or 12 miles apart, perhaps, is a little copse or thicket, like an oasis, of an acre or two, where the shepherd can camp and make his fire and let his sheep rest and feed a little. But it must be very anxious work travelling with stock across here, and no one does it who can go by any other route. We indulged in many speculations as to the change the railway will create some day in the near future.
I don’t know if I can in the least make you understand what this bit of country was like, and it looked still more weird and strange, seeing it as we did, for the first time, with the dawn gradually spreading over it, and the sun coming up, red and round, over the distant eastern edge. If you can fancy an ocean of sand instead of water you will have some faint idea of the way we could see all round us for miles and miles and miles. And not a calm ocean, either—an ocean with waves and large billows turned into sudden stillness, as though by a magic wand. We drove up and down these billows, keeping close to the telegraph poles all the time, and seeing no other hoof or wheel marks than those made by our own van on its way up to Dongarra three or four days ago. It was not possible to go out of a foot’s pace anywhere, and when we had to climb up one of the billows of sand we went very, very slowly. The fine sand poured off the broad high wheels as if it were water, and you could hear no sound except the creaking of the carriage and an occasional word of encouragement from the driver to the staunch, good horses, who stooped their heads low and pulled bravely and steadily along. The gentlemen tried to get a shot at a hawk which appeared now and then in front of us, but it would not let any one with a gun get within range, and we saw no other game that first day.
Just at first the low bushes were scant and bare, but when we got fairly into the sand-plains the flowers began. Is not that strange? I thought of that verse in the Bible about the desert blossoming like a rose, and felt that I knew now for the first time what it meant. During many months of the year all this sandy waste is absolutely bare and desolate; but our overland journey had been so timed that we should cross it when all the wild flowers were out. And it was certainly the most wonderful sight you can imagine, nor do I expect that anything I can write can give you the least idea of their beauty. The first wonder is that they are there at all, for the little bushes on which they grow seem just to sit lightly on the top of the sand; and there they are, blooming away without a drop of water, and under a fierce sun. They do not last more than three months in blossom under these conditions, but they are very astonishing and beautiful.
Before we started people used to say, “And then you will see our wild flowers,” and I used carelessly to answer “Shall I?” and think no more about it. Dear me, I feel now that hitherto I have never seen any wild flowers at all! I wanted to stop the van every minute, get out the ladder, climb down, and pick (or pull up the whole bush, for that was the shortest way) some perfectly exquisite flower. But we should have been on the sand-plains now if I had done that. The orderly used to jump off his horse and pick me anything specially wonderful and beautiful. And the quantity was so bewildering. One would come to a patch of a heavenly blue flower, the most beautiful bright blue you ever saw in your life in any flower; and that patch of blue would stretch away all round you as far as your eye could reach for miles and miles, only broken here and there, perhaps, with tufts of tall crimson flowers, or a huge patch of pink everlastings, and clumps of feathery gray “smoke plant.” I am afraid boys don’t care much about flowers, so I had better not bore you with my ecstasies. It is of no use drying them or trying to preserve them in any way, for that would give you as little idea of their loveliness as a mummy does of a human being.
The utter absence of animal life—the profound silence, and then this brilliant world of flowers stretching round about—made one feel as if it were all a dream. On and on we slowly crept, noiselessly ploughing through the sand. We were all so taken up gazing at the flowers, that except an occasional “Oh!” of delight no one spoke hardly. But by and by, towards noon, the driver pointed to a distant dark edge and said, “There’s Tipper’s Thicket.” We were extremely glad to hear that, for Tipper’s Thicket meant lunch, and rest, and fresh horses. It was only about 15 miles off from our sleeping-place of last night, and yet we had been ever since daylight creeping towards it; so you can imagine how slowly we travelled.
I am afraid we began to remember then that we were both hungry and thirsty, and that we had to make breakfast and lunch into one meal, having only had some tea, and bread and butter about 5 A.M.; and I anxiously asked whether the kettle had been packed up, and the bottles filled with fresh water for tea. Yes; it is all right, and the horses seem to know that food and rest is before them, poor dears, and stoop their heads down and pull along at a brisker walk. And so we drove up to Tipper’s Thicket in capital time, with a perfect sky and sun overhead, a fairy world of flowers around, a delicious little breeze blowing, not enough to disturb the sand, but just sufficient to cool the air for the horses, and we were all as hungry as hunters, and as merry as schoolboys. Such bustling about for firewood, such careful filling of the kettle—for water is far more precious than gold hereabouts—such unpacking of baskets and little boxes! The result is a capital luncheon, and it adds to one’s enjoyment of the chicken pie, and the jam puffs, and the tea, to watch the horses, with noses buried in their bags, munching away in great comfort, having first been allowed a delightful roll in the sand, which dried them thoroughly. They shall have a good drink presently, and are even now eagerly eyeing the buckets which are standing in the sun to take the chill off the water, for the little pool at Tipper’s Thicket is shaded by trees, and icy cold.
You can’t think what a pretty spot it was, with its clump of trees and brushwood to shade us, and the green grass to lie on, and even a few twittering birds. No doubt there were native dogs in it, too, but we did not see them. Think of what an unexpected feast they will have to-night, but the birds will have been beforehand with the fragments and crumbs. Naturally, when we had all eaten as much as we could, and the gentlemen—cramped by sitting still so long—were strolling about smoking, some one asked, “And who was Tipper, pray?”
Tipper had been a shepherd of a rather solitary turn of mind, who had built himself a comfortable hut here and lived all alone, but delighted to entertain any stray passers-by. Poor Tipper had, however, been cruelly murdered some years ago by natives, for the sake of his blankets and a bottle of rum. No one missed Tipper, and it was not till some returning overland traveller thought it surprising he should not be about his hut, that poor Tipper’s bones were sought, and found hidden carelessly away, with a native spear lying close by them; and that is all that is known of Tipper’s fate. But it is said that no shepherd will camp here by night, and even the natives avoid the spot after dark.
It was sad to listen to this tragic story, after we had all been laughing and speculating about Tipper. One could quite understand choosing this spot to settle in if one wished for solitude, it was so very pretty. Our informant had himself known poor Tipper, and said he had made himself very comfortable in a Robinson Crusoe sort of fashion.
But we must not delay any longer. The fresh horses, sent on overnight, have had a splendid rest and feed here, and look quite fit to take us on. The country is just the same; and I must really try and not say anything more about the flowers, but it is very difficult to leave off attempting to describe them. I suspect you will like better to hear that we startled several kangaroos this afternoon; once or twice they jumped up almost under the horses’ feet, stared at us for an instant, and then hopped off, slowly at first, as it seemed, but each hop covered more distance, and they cleared the bushes in fine style. We stopped to watch the first two or three we saw, but afterwards the driver shook his head and murmured something about wanting every moment of daylight for the rough bit of road which we should have to cross just before our sleeping-place. And that bit was rough! A long, narrow belt of scrub and trees seemed quite to spoil the sand which, if heavy, was at least not dangerous. But in this copse—a copse on a large scale—the road or track, for it was a road only made with an axe, took us over fallen tree-trunks, roots sticking up, deep holes, and sharp dangerous pitches into what, for a few weeks after heavy rain, was a watercourse. You can’t imagine what places we went over! The van tilted over to one side, or else gave a great bounce and flung us about here and there, and yet when we got over the obstacle, lo, we were all safe and sound, and nothing broken—neither harness, nor springs, nor bones!
It was very nice, just as the sun was setting, to see a fence, and soon after to drive up past a woolshed to a nice little house, where a blazing fire and capital supper awaited us, with the kindest possible welcome. All the shearers and station-hands had turned out to cheer and welcome the Governor, and we were specially interested to see quite a large group of natives among them, of whom their employer gave an excellent character. It was too late, and we were too tired and jolted to talk to them that evening, so we waited till next morning when there would be half an hour to spare before our early start. They all mustered gladly at six o’clock to see their “Big Guvna,” who talked most kindly to them, and asked them all sorts of questions. One or two spoke English in their odd fashion, and they all looked delighted, and seemed happy and contented. There were two or three women—lubras they call them—and a few piccaninnies. It is still very cold at night, so each was wrapped up in her blankets and furs. Of course they were not in war-dress, nor had they spears or shields, for they were peaceable and—I was going to say hard working, but I fear they are hardly that. Their master, our kind host, told one of the women to turn out her pouch or pocket. It was made of a young kangaroo skin, and was something like a Highland sporran. It had very much the same sort of things in it which you boys delight to carry about in your pockets. Everybody, even the other natives, laughed immensely, as first a bit of string tumbled out, then a queer-shaped bone (that was a charm), then a tiny bit of soap, then a broken pipe, some buttons, then a few bright beads, a lump of black-boy gum, and, last of all, a little bit of looking-glass, about two inches square. That was a great treasure, and wrapped up in leaves.
Each of these smiling “black fellows,” as they call themselves, was made happy with a shilling, and the piccaninnies, not very many—had a sixpence put into their wee black paws, which they first solemnly stared at, and then tried to choke themselves with, after the fashion of babies all over the world.