Читать книгу Life in the Australian Backblocks - Edward S Sorenson - Страница 8

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Once the crack of the bullock-whip and the high-pitched voice of the bullocky were heard daily around Sydney; it was the wheels of his dray that marked out George Street, the early citizens building along on each side of his track. That accounts for the winds that are in it, showing where Bill had to gee off or come hither to avoid a stump or a tree. Now he belongs almost exclusively to Outback; the bullock has been ousted by the horse from "inside" roads. Horses are quicker and more easily handled than bullocks. They certainly require more care, more expensive gear, are less hardy, and cost more than the horned animal, but the time saved on the road makes up for all that.

The bullock was an adjunct that well fitted in with the ruggedness of pioneering, but advanced settlement has no use for him, and has driven him into remote regions to mark out more George Streets. Though much used everywhere by timber-getters, only an odd bullock team is found now in the carrying line, except far inland where time is of little consequence. Even on the dry roads where the horned beast has beaten the horse the camel has beaten him, and where the camel has not intruded the mule has become a formidable rival. The poor bullock has ever to plod the hard road, and with no hope of an old age pension at the end of it. When he has slaved for Bill till he is too old to work any longer, Bill kills him and eats him. Bullock-driving is not the sort of calling that the average man hankers after; the average man, in fact, considers it one of the worst that he could be asked to take up. But to the veteran ox-conductor there is no grander thing on earth than his wagon and a spanking team of sixteen bullocks. Henry Kendall sings of "Bullocky Bill":—

"What trouble has Bill for the ruin of lands,

Or the quarrels of temple and throne,

So long as the whip that he holds in his hands

And the team that he drives are his own?

He thrives like an Arab. Between the two wheels

Is his bedroom, where, lying upcurled.

He thinks for himself, like a Sultan, and feels

That his home is the best in the world.

Of course he must dream; but be sure that his dreams,

If happy, must compass, alas!

Fat bullocks at feed by improbable streams,

Knee-deep in improbable grass."

While smoking a pipe in a bullocky's camp one evening the conversation turned on Tattersail's sweeps, and I asked Come-Hither-Jack what he would do if he had the luck to draw a big prize. "I'd 'ave one glorious drunk," he said. "Only a month, though," he added quickly. "A month satisfies me at any time. Then I'd get a real spankin' new table-top, with broad tyres, that 'ud carry twenty ton. I'd 'ave it made to order. I've got it all specified, an' drawed out, an' it's runnin' beautiful—in my mind. I'll lay it 'ul take a bend outer some o' those carrion-choppers out 'ere."

"What would you do, Bill?" I asked, turning to another man.

"I'd 'ave the best bloomin' team this side o' Bourke," said Bill in an emphatic burst of confidence.

Punching is the mainspring of Bullocky Bill's existence, and he could hardly be happy if released from the thraldom of the yoke. In the team all his interests are centred; there his ambition begins and ends. To carry a bigger load than any one else or do a trip in record time is fame; to possess a bullock that can pull any other bullock on the road is to cover him with glory and to perpetuate his name and the name of Strawberry among the fraternity generation after generation. They will tell you where that quadruped was calved, how he was bought and broken in, what roads he worked on, how he died, and where his bones are resting.

Bill can talk bullock to you for a week at a stretch, dilating on the merits of Straggler and the skull-dragging propensities of old Brindle; and on the fashions of yokes, chains, bows, and other jewellery; on the respective merits of black myrtle and kindred woods for whip-handles, and the marvellous things that can be done with a whip. Greenhide Jack, for instance, never used an axe on barren roads, but fed his stock by whipping showers of leaves from the trees. He could pick up a sixpence nine times out of ten with a whipthong, and he flogged his name as neatly as a man could carve it on the trees in passing. He particularises his team from polers to leaders; how Rowdy and Ball stop dead, and will stand dragging at the call of "Whey," and would steady a wagon down any hill without chain or brake; how Spot handled the steer, shoving him off and lugging him to; and how Starlight was the devil's own for turning his yoke. He gives you novel ways of starting a sulky bullock—making a fire under him, pounding his ribs with a shovel, or rubbing a stick smartly backwards and forwards on his tail; and he has equally effective methods of dealing with the skull-dragger and the beast that is always getting his splaw foot over the chain.

I innocently gave my ear one day to Crooked Mick as he reclined lazily on a bale of wool, waiting for a load at a border station. He started at 9 a.m. to tell me his experiences down the track in yoking-up a refractory team. When we adjourned for lunch he had one bullock, named Bismarck, yoked, and was bringing back his mate Rattler across a mulga paddock for the forty-eleventh time. He got him bowed and keyed during the meal, but had forgotten the coggles. He was searching for them about the yard when I left the table. Mick always made for me afterwards while he remained at the shed, to edify me with the yoking of the other fourteen, but I remembered urgent engagements elsewhere.

It is a pet contention of the bullocky that, beast for beast, his team can shift a heavier load than the horse team. Bullocks go at their work with a steady pull, while horses mostly plunge and jerk, especially if there is any bulldog tenacity in the "hang" behind. But the horse-driver treats such statements with ridicule. At a gathering of mixed carriers this question will be argued with animation for a week, and some astonishing feats, real and imaginary, will be described.

Bullock camps were once plentiful along the main roads. Not infrequently there would be fifty or sixty men in camp, and, gathered round the blazing log fires, they would mix the yarns of the roads with songs and music. Two out of every three teams carried a concertina or a violin. Travellers joined them, and many a time bushrangers have shared their fires; more than once the lawless bands have helped themselves to the cargo. This, of course, was in the long ago, when bullock-driving had its thrills and possessed something of the picturesque features of the southern overlanders. A swagman was one evening chopping up an old yoke to boil his billy when ten or twelve sovereigns dropped out of it. They had been secreted in an auger hole, which had been neatly plugged and painted over. This was one of the devices adopted by the bullocky to defeat the ends of the robbers. The yoke had probably been lost or the plant forgotten.

Out in the far west, where there is a drought between each shower of rain and bush fires are unknown on account of the scarcity of grass, bullock-punching is an occupation calculated to deaden a man's soul. It is cruel; but men forget the cruelty when, at a pinch in the blistering sun, the way-worn brutes refuse to pull together. I have seen many a man, after tearing up and down like an escaped lunatic, gesticulating wildly, slashing left and right, and venting all the execrations at his command, throw himself down by the wagon exhausted and speechless. When he has cooled down, he looks remorsefully at the whip-streaked ribs of his beaten team, and his conscience pricks him, as one by one the dumb brutes turn their heads slowly towards him, their eyes full of suffering and mute appeal. He looks pityingly—and then curses himself.

Some men are naturally cruel, and even go to the extent of lighting a fire under a stubborn animal.

A peculiar instance of a bullock turning the tables on a driver occurred some years ago on a western track. One of the pin-bullocks had lain down, and all other means failing to shift him, the man with the whip lit a fire under his middle. When it began to burn well the jibber jumped up and put his shoulder to the yoke with great energy, and, assisted by his mate and the polers, pulled on just far enough to leave the wagon fairly over the fire. The smile that had momentarily played on the driver's face died suddenly; he rushed forward with dilating eyes, lashed with the whip, belted with the handle, yelled and howled; but the whole team had gone on strike. The wagon, loaded with inflammable material, caught fire, and was quickly reduced to cinders.

On the dry bush tracks, with their frequent intermissions of heavy sand and stony hills, between Bourke and the Queensland border the bullock-driver has a hard time. A long day through blistering heat, flies, and dust; then a ride back with tired bullocks, eight or ten miles, to the last water; and to-morrow a long night ride ahead to the next water. There he camps for the night, getting back to the wagons about sunrise next morning. There is often no grass or herbage, and after taking his cattle to water he has to cut scrub to feed them. One can hardly blame the poor bullocky if he helps himself to a nip from the tempting consignment of hotel goods he has on board. He has many ingenious ways of accomplishing this. One of the hoops on the beer-cask is knocked up the least bit, and a small hole bored through the side. This is afterwards plugged with deal, and concealed by replacing the hoop. The rum or brandy cask is managed in another way. A couple of quarts of boiling water are poured on top and left there all night. In the morning it is strong enough to make the hardiest of them drunk if they drink enough of it. Again, when the worn-out ox-persuader feels the need of a reviver in the shape of a glass of whisky, one feels inclined to excuse him when he lets some heavy weight drop—accidentally, of course—on the whisky-case and smashes a bottle. It is only natural, and in accordance with the laws of economics, that he should catch the flowing spirit in his billy and drink "better luck" to the rest of the consignment.

Many teamsters on the western tracks are bound to time, and in making up for some unforeseen delay the cattle suffer, and not infrequently several head are left by the roadside to die. There is a stiff penalty for dilatoriness, ranging up to one pound per day. Sometimes the drivers are docked so much per ton for every day over contract time. On these roads grass and water are precious, and very often a good night for the team is not to be had for love or money. Still, the team must eat and drink to get the load through; so the teamster has to battle for it; and the cunning begotten of long experience on the roads is set against the watchfulness of the landowner. The bullocks are taken quietly to the tanks at night—not to the one near which the teams may be camped, but to one several miles distant. Then the wires are strapped down, and the hungry animals are slipped in where the feed is best and left till nearly daylight, one of the men sleeping in the paddock with them. Perhaps only half the team will be thus treated at a time, the other half being left on neutral ground, carrying all the available bells to mislead the enemy.

I knew a teamster to camp one night in a lane where there was an excavated tank on each side of him. About midnight two boys, carrying a far-sounding bell in each hand, walked across to one tank, and the tolling of the bells soon brought out the owner and his assistant. The boys sought cover while the deluded pair rode round; and when they were leaving the neighourhood one bell rang out violently as when a bullock shakes its head. Back came the searchers, and another hour was wasted in beating about among the bushes. By this time the old man had watered the bullocks at the other tank, brought them back into the lane, and turned in with his face wreathed in smiles.

The bullocky takes as much pride in his wagon as a captain does in his ship, and, like the ship, the wagon is always "she." To quote Kendall again:—

"His dray is no living, responsible thing,

But he gives it the gender of life;

And, seeing his fancy is free in the wing,

It suits him as well as a wife."

Each wagon bears a name fancifully painted on the sides. Some I have met with are: "Margaret Catchpole," "Gipsy Queen," "Currency Lass," "The Never Get Stuck," "Dancing Girl," "Sarah Bernhardt," "Rose of Beauty," "Flirt," "Marie Corelli," "Mary Ah Foo," and "The Eulo Queen." There are "Freetraders," "Protectionists," "Democrats," "Republicans," and "Home Rules" wheeling about in dozens; also "Wombats," "Wallabys," "Brumbys," and other animals. One happens upon peculiarities at times in bullock nomenclature. One teamster called his pets Villain, Rascal, Vagabond, Scoundrel, Demon, Vampire, Monster, &c.; and another's team was named after prominent politicians, with Barton and Kingston in the pole and Reid and Lyne in the lead. Occasionally one meets a team composed of all Devons (red), or all Herefords, or all spotted bullocks. I saw one all-black team, which belonged to a farmer; but I never met an all-white turnout. White is an off-colour with Bullocky Bill.

The Queensland bullockies are generally in better fettle than those of New South Wales and Victoria, having the main roads yet very much in their own hands. There they take their families and their fowls and goats with them on their far-inland trips. I happened upon a camp of them once in a bend of the Ward River, spelling on good feed. There were eight teams; each man had his wife and children, his herd of goats, and his coop of poultry; and the place resembled a prosperous farmyard. The women clustered under trees in the cool of the evening, the men reclined by the wagons, all swopping yarns and experiences; whilst the bare-legged children yelled and gambolled about the billabongs. When travelling, the missus sat on top of the load or drove behind in a tilted cart; the children—some mounted, some walking—drove the goats and spare oxen; while the coops swung under the tails of the wagons. On reaching camp the fowls were let out, to chase the unwary grasshopper and disport themselves in the bush until all was ready to trek next morning. Under such circumstances the carrier gets much pleasure out of life. Every camp is home; and when the day's work is done the voices of his wife and little ones add cheeriness to the camp fire's blaze.

"And thus through the world, with a swing in his tread,

Bill Bullock self-satisfied goes.

With his cabbage-tree hat on the back of his head.

And the string of it under his nose."