Cleaning out the storeroom would obviously take more than one day and one pair of hands so Mary and Sylvester helped. As I sorted, Mary cleaned and Sylvester carted the rubbish out to the garbage disposal—a hole in the ground—and burnt it.
Late in the morning I came across a whole box of bullets of all descriptions. Knowing the men were short of bullets, I put the box aside then went off to settle an argument between the children. Walking back I collided with Sylvester.
I couldn’t understand a word he was saying, even Mary was having trouble, when suddenly the whole scene turned into a Chinese New Year. Our first reaction was to hit the deck and it was in that position that Mary informed me we were ducking real live bullets that Sylvester had accidentally dumped on the fire.
The children! They were around the corner from our firing rubbish dump, but what if they walked around the corner to see what all the noise was about? In the loudest voice imaginable, I called, ‘Children, don’t move!’ and started crawling to them. The children had frozen on my command and then, following me, we all crawled to the opposite side of the house, away from the flying bullets.
The rest of the day was spent on all fours. As the kitchen was in the line of fire, not much was eaten. Around dinnertime we were all starting to feel quite hungry, but with only one sheet of tin between us and a possible bullet, there wasn’t a rush on food. However, eventually, with a mattress at my side, I crawled to the fridge and took out some food.
The setting sun found us sitting on the ground up against the wall, eating cold beef and bread, and drinking brown powdered milk. As the bathroom was also in the line of fire, baths were dispensed with that night and two very dirty children crawled into bed. Mary and Sylvester made it to their camp across the flat without mishap and, behind the mattress, I made it to the caravan.
I covered the wall with the tabletop, stuffed papers and magazines between for good measure, and with the mattress on the floor, drifted off into a very fitful, nervous sleep. could see my epitaph: ‘Shot by a rubbish dump’.
It would be safe to say I was stiff, tired and completely out of sorts the next morning. I would have loved to stay right there, in bed, on the floor, for the whole day. At least that way I could be sure of nothing happening. But today was mail plane day, so I had to face the ‘outside the caravan’ world. I deposited the children at the back of the shed on the offside of the bullet-shooting rubbish dump, then, armed with mattress and hose, I approached and thoroughly drenched the rubbish dump. Hoping this would alleviate the risk of a stray bullet shooting down the mail plane, I went to the now back ‘on limits’ kitchen and cooked a healthy breakfast. Then, for the next two hours, believe it or not, nothing happened.
We were waiting for the mail plane when another plane landed. I walked out with the children in tow and Mary and Sylvester close on our heels. It was a small plane for some of the stations not on the Perth run, and there were nine passengers on board. One of the nine passengers was handed over to me. She was pregnant, too pregnant it seemed.
‘You can’t leave her here in that condition.’
‘I can’t take her with me, she’s having labour pains.’
‘What? Well you certainly can’t leave her here. I don’t even have clean water.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve contacted the Flying Doctor and they’re on their way. All you have to do is let her rest till they arrive. Alright?’
‘No, it’s not alright!’
I was about to continue when he closed the door, taxied out onto the airstrip and took off. My complete open-mouth daze was broken by a rather bloodcurdling labour pain scream. At this sound, Sylvester took off down the airstrip after the plane and disappeared into the bush. Mary and I helped Rosie, our newly acquired patient, into our modern tin shed hospital complete with bed and radio.
Trying hard to be calm, I made Rosie as comfortable as possible, then looked in the medical book for tips on delivering a baby. It made me feel quite ill. In a crisis, Mum always made tea, so I made tea. We drank the tea and Rosie looked miserable.
I had had two babies myself, but I’d been at the other end of the affair with a doctor who knew his job at the right end. This was a very different kettle of fish! The mother-to-be was young and after much sign language, Mary found out this was her first baby.
Mary then informed me that she had delivered ‘plenty babies’, bush-style that is, but still she was miles ahead of me. She said there was nothing to it. I calmed down a little, but not much.
The three of us sat there staring at each other. We felt every pain. The sitting did not last long, the poor mother-to-be was jumping all over the bed. I was trying to tell her to breathe deeply and relax, but I couldn’t even follow my own instructions, so I doubted if poor Rosie could.
After what seemed like a lifetime we heard a plane engine. It was the doctor, and after he’d checked Rosie we helped her into the plane, and watched happily as it disappeared over the horizon. I skipped dinner that night and retired early along with the children. They were not the least bit tired. I was drained to the point of exhaustion.
I awoke the next morning tired but cheery. Well, let’s face it, nothing else could happen. The morning passed pleasantly enough with the children playing and swimming. Then after lunch We heard a plane. Feeling quite safe from another pregnant drop-off, we awaited our visitor. It turned out to be a friend from Sydney who was taking his seventy-five-year-old mother on a trip around the North with him. He wanted his mother to stay with us for three days while he went bush on some survey work. I told him it was fine as long as she didn’t mind roughing it. He assured me that it was the lap of luxury compared to where he was going.
In the cool of the afternoon, we took our guest for a walk to the billabong and showed her the wildlife. We returned home to shower and change, and then have a cold roast beef sandwich and beer while we peacefully watched the sun set. We had just settled ourselves with our dinner when we heard the drone of a plane engine again. It landed and the seven occupants informed me they were lost, and because it was a few minutes to last light (all planes must land before sunset, unless they are instrument rated), DCA had told them to proceed to the nearest airstrip, which was ours.
I now had seven more guests for dinner. They accepted roast beef sandwiches and beer, not that they had a choice, and sitting on various drums, woodstumps and the floor, they joined us to watch the sunset.
We had not been sitting for more than five minutes when we heard another engine. Everyone looked up into the sky but this time the engine was approaching on the ground. The jeep pulled up and out piled four men. They were a Department of Roads crew coming to tell us our road was open for the season. Of course they were staying the night. They had food, so it was pooled with the roast beef sandwiches and beer.
We hadn’t even seated this lot when another engine could be heard, above us this time. It was now very definitely last light and whoever it was up there had to come down and be quick about it. There were six men in this plane. They weren’t lost, they were the drilling engineers who were to put in our new bore, and they had come in ahead of the drill rig which was on its way in by road. More roast beef sandwiches and beer.
We now had seventeen men sitting with us watching the sun set, when, you guessed it, another engine. Out of the dust appeared a jeep with three on board. They were the people who would haul our supplies in by road that year, and having heard our road was very bad, had decided to drive in and see it for themselves. How about that, twenty men for dinner!
The problem which then faced us was bedding. It was now well into June and the nights were very cold. We average about 45 degrees Fahrenheit or 7 degrees Celsius and twenty people use a lot of blankets. The two jeep loads were equipped with bedding, but the lost load had planned hotel accommodation, so they only had clothing. The engineering team had some warm clothing, but no bedding. All their equipment was with the drill rig, somewhere on our road. As many as possible slept in the planes, and the rest on the
kitchen floor in front of the wood stove. After several hours of ingenious bed-building, everyone had a place to rest his or her head.
Finally I drifted off into a well-earned sleep. But it was not to last—I was rudely awoken by a piercing scream. Racing into the guestroom, I fully expected to see my guest wrapped in a snake. I found her bed empty. Another shattering scream had me racing to the kitchen, and there I found her. It seems she was tiptoeing into the kitchen for a glass of water when she tripped and landed in the arms of a fair-haired Italian.
He was one of the trucking group. His brother owned the semi, and he had just arrived from Italy and was to be the driver. He was big, very handsome, and couldn’t speak a word of English. The more she screamed, the tighter he held her. Her Victorian upbringing was shocked to the roots.
I went to her assistance and was trying to unwind her from Rico’s bear hug when he suddenly let go of her and grabbed me. She jumped to her feet and bolted out the door. I called after her to come and help me, but the only reply was the slamming of her bedroom door.
It didn’t take long for me to decide to stop wriggling; apart from dislodging my nightgown, it was having a disastrous effect on Rico. I stopped wriggling, he waited. I whispered in his ear, ‘Uno momento’, the only Italian that came to me. He released his grip with a ‘Che?’ and I jumped up and bolted for the door. I was half way out the door when I ran headlong into another mountain of male flesh!
Oh no! After what I had been through the last four days, this was the last straw. I was just about to start kicking and punching when, apart from the awful smell, that big chest seemed strangely familiar. I looked up and there stood Charles. I gratefully sagged into his arms, no longer wanting to fight for my honour, and he carried me back to our caravan.
In typical male manner, he then demanded to know what I was doing in the kitchen with all those men. It took me a while to clear myself and relate the night’s escapades. He finally believed me and after a shower and shave, was very loving and attentive, knowing full well that if he wasn’t, Rico would be happy to oblige.
The next morning after we had dispatched all our visitors, Charles made the incredible statement that next time he went away, he would make sure that there was plenty to do to occupy my time.
‘Occupy my time? Battles with water pumps, being nearly drowned in mud, shot up by a rubbish dump, a pregnant woman to deal with, twenty men for dinner, practically two rapes on my hands, one of them mine. And you are going to see that I am occupied?’
‘Now Darling, don’t let your imagination run away with you, it all stems from having too much time on your hands.’
I threw a pillow at him and stormed out of the caravan and down the airstrip. I walked to the river, sat under a large tree and smouldered. After a while Charles joined me and apologised. Mary had explained to him that my wild imagination had been very much reality.
As we sat there I asked him to tell me about the muster.
‘What about the muster?’
‘Well I wave goodbye to you at the gate and after a lot of commotion all the animals settle down, the lot of you disappear down the road in a cloud of dust, only to reappear a week or so later with a large mob of cattle. What happens during that week?’
He made himself comfortable against the tree, lit his pipe and wove me the following picture of an outback muster.
For the horse tailer the day starts at three-thirty to four a.m. He holds a night horse in one of the small horse paddocks built along the mustering trail. The horse tailer is also usually the camp cook, so soon after he saddles his horse he stirs the fire and settles the billy on the coals so tea will be ready when he returns. He then goes looking for the mob.
All the young colts in training are left in the horse paddock. They are still green, and, like children, they learn from others’ behaviour. They stand and watch the procedures and hopefully learn the right things to do. So the horse tailer goes looking for the mob on the old night horse. Now he is a special horse, he is a mate of all the stock horses, so when you let him have his head, he will immediately lead you to all the other horses, you hope.
Condamine bells are put around the mules’ necks, so when they are grazing you can hear the clanging. That’s in case the night horse decides not to lead the horse tailer to the mob.
Apparently the animals really are characters. They actually take turns, one mule going miles in the opposite direction to the mob, clanging furiously. The horse tailer goes off in the direction of the sound and only finds one mule, not the mob. By the time he finds the mob miles away in the other direction, a couple of hours have been lost.
Of course sometimes the old horse tailers go in the opposite direction to the noise, because they know the tricks the animals play. But some horse tailers say the horses and mules even work this move out, so every now and then the mob just happens to be grazing with the clanging condamine and the tailer has spent hours going in a wide circle in the wrong direction. Sometimes the mob varies the game for fun and, come three a.m., just before the horse tailer is about to leave camp, the clanging stops. The mules stand still and do not make a noise and it takes hours to find them. Sometimes the night horse even calls to say he is coming as soon as the horse tailer gets out of his swag, and not long after that the clanging stops, or there is a single clang that fades into the distance. At this point the horse tailer has to decide which path of action to take that morning. Deep strategy!
You never need an alarm clock to wake you, because the bells clang all night, and even though you sleep, you can hear them, then at the same time every morning, they stop, and you are immediately awake.
The horses have a pecking order. The older, experienced horses graze in a group and the younger horses in training are not allowed into the group. Eventually one of the younger horses will be allowed into the select mob. Presumably in some way he has earned his stripes, either by age or experience, probably both.
The horse tailer finds the older horses first and starts them back to the camp. The younger horses follow dutifully behind, watching the older horses’ every move, and keeping up, just so they don’t miss anything. If the horse tailer tried to muster up the younger horses first, there would be no end of trouble—the horses would just refuse to be led.
Finally, after all this, the horse tailer arrives back at the camp, just as dawn is showing in the sky.
The men are up now and they help yard the horses and mules. The horses spend time settling down and the men leave them and go and have breakfast, usually steak cooked on a shovel, damper or bread and black tea with lots of sugar.
Dawn in the stock camp is a really special time. There are special sights and special sounds that belong only to this scene—all the horses greeting each other, men rolling their swags, the small talk about the day to come, the smell of steak cooking and billy tea bubbling on the coals. The condamine bells clanging again as the mules move around the yard jockeying for position and the screeching of cockatoos and parrots passing over at intervals just as the dawn breaks.
With breakfast over, the men move into the horse paddock and, after more fun and games, the horses are taken out to be saddled. The men then ride over to the holding paddock and let the coachers out. The coachers are the cattle from the home yard, about fifty in all. These are quiet cattle, and the idea is to ride out into the bush and find the wild cattle, then push them into the mob of quiet cattle. The wild cattle see the coachers quietly walking along and so they join them. That’s the theory anyway, but there are many variations. The bulls are the hardest to convince.
The stockmen, once they have the coachers out of the yards, move them into a close mob and off in the planned direction. They pass through a certain section and end up at an arranged place for lunch, and eventually the next holding paddock camp, for the night.
The time spent at each camp is determined by where the muster is taking place on the station. Sometimes it can be up to four days, in a heavily stocked area.
Each day the
stockmen go off in a different direction. The coachers are led out in a straight line, and the stockmen ride off into the bush in long sweeps to bring any cattle back to the mob.
Lunch is a travelling affair. While the stockmen were busy all morning, chasing cattle, the horse tailer, now cook, cooked bread and lunch and arrived at the lunch camp with the meal and a mob of fresh horses. Mustering is a bit like polo, you have to change your horse about three, sometimes four, times a day. There is so much galloping in one day, one horse couldn’t last the whole day.
Each man has a fifteen-minute break, one at a time, away from the mob. Just enough time to down a couple of large tin pannikins of tea, answer the call of nature, grab a lump of bread and beef and back to the mob to let one of the other men leave.
After lunch the horse tailer takes the morning horses back to the camp and the stockmen turn the mob in a wide half circle and head back to the camp as well. On the return journey they repeat the morning operation, picking up all the wild cattle they can.
By sunset all the cattle are safely in the holding paddock for the night, the night horse is in his yard and the stock horses and mules are hobbled and left to graze.
There is so much you have to learn and know on a muster. Packing the mule correctly—if this is not done properly then you end up with a mule with a rubbed back and the next day you are down one mule. Everything you need is packed on the mules, so mules are a very important part of the overall picture.
Forward planning is essential. If the muster is on a flat and there are no trees in the immediate area, the cook has to load wood on the pack mule’s load, so he can boil the billy for lunch. Some areas have no water, so the special flat-sided water cans made for the pack saddles have to be filled and taken along.
From Strength to Strength Page 14