Daughter of the Territory

by Jacqueline Hammar

  A gentleman named Bleezer planted Poinciana trees along the coastal road opposite the old Fannie Bay Gaol, a canopy of intense scarlet to compete with the spectacle of the tropic sunset off Mindil Beach—where, did you know there was once an Aboriginal burial ground?

  Sumptuous purple bloom of Bougainvillea ran rampant over seedy sights, as if in coy apology for their shambolic state, while the heavy cloying scent of frangipani, fragrant jewel flower of the tropics, soaked into the humid night air, along with the buzzing of mosquitoes and stinging sand flies: a languorously exotic background for Darwin’s thousand coloured faces.

  CHAPTER 4

  Life Down Batchelor Way

  After three years on the Rankine, my father was transferred to Darwin. His leg injuries from the war had worsened; the continuous horse-riding played havoc with these old wounds. Because a surgeon was visiting Darwin from the south, it was decided that my father should have an operation.

  In searing heat and raging winds, he’d dealt with horse thieves, cattle dodgers and murderers; patrolled hundreds of kilometres with packhorse and tracker; helped settle disputes of drovers, cattlemen, teamsters, Aboriginals. He departed with barely a backward glance, and made a beeline to the tropical delights and urbanity of Darwin.

  After as successful a leg operation as was possible at that time, my father was sent down to Batchelor, a small settlement about a hundred kilometres south of Darwin, to recuperate while carrying out light duties—mainly supervising the care of elderly Aboriginal people who were settled there in a compound.

  Life was uneventful down Batchelor way, until Police Commissioner George Vernon Dudley arranged to meet with him and came down on the train. In his journal, my father told of his meeting with Dudley and what followed:

  One of his first questions to me was: ‘Jack, can you drive a car?’

  ‘I drove the car sent down to the Rankine for stock work.’

  ‘Good,’ he replied. ‘I’ve got a trip for you.’

  ‘Where?’ I asked warily.

  ‘Out to the Tanami goldfields,’ he said.

  ‘Tanami—hell, that’s way out in the desert. There’s nothing there but wild Munjong blacks, bad ones too.’

  Dudley replied, ‘We’ve received a report that the blacks have been raiding the camps of miners and prospectors. They’ve been stealing their rations and burning their camps. There hasn’t been a police patrol out there since 1911 when the first miners took up small gold shows, so we’ve got to go out and investigate this, see if there’s any truth in it. You’ll be back in a couple of weeks. All you’ll need is your swag and a rifle, be a nice change for you.’

  And away back to Darwin he went.

  When the train came down again, my old native boys drove me over to the station in the dray. Sure enough, there was Dudley and a new Ford motor car too.

  ‘Look here,’ I said, ‘why didn’t you bring one of those young fellas from Darwin down for this trip? My legs still aren’t a hundred per cent, y’know.’

  ‘Well, Jack,’ he said, ‘none of them can drive a car. Besides, it’s no use taking inexperienced men out to deal with bush blacks, you must know that.’

  Later, with the car unloaded, we went over to my quarters and settled down to study the report.

  ‘Now,’ Dudley said, ‘we’ll go down to Katherine, load up with rations, then we’ll head out to Wave Hill Station and pick up Frank Sheridan. He’s the trooper stationed there. He won’t like it either, but we’ll need his help to get through—I’m told the roads are just tracks.’

  Somehow I couldn’t picture the immaculate Dudley in his tropical whites wielding a shovel in heavy sand, so I was all for Sherry joining us.

  My argument against going had fallen on deaf ears, so nothing for it but to pick up my rifle and swag, and see if I retained my driving skills.

  We loaded stores in Katherine and, with our cans of benzene [petrol] strapped on the running boards, headed out into the ‘wild’ blue yonder. After chugging along a road made by the passage of wagon wheels and camping by the roadside at night, we finally lurched out of the dust, sweeping grandly into the western sunset and Wave Hill Station.

  A reluctant Sheridan joined us. Dudley suggested he bring plenty of ammunition, as we could be headed for trouble—not a happy prospect.

  We drove on through miles of Wave Hill country until we reached Gordon Downs Station, managed by a man named Egan. We took a few days break as the annual Halls Creek Picnic Races were due to begin. There was a regular packhorse mail out this way, but it would be another ten years before there would be only three permanent motor cars in the area from Wyndham on the west coast to Katherine in the Northern Territory. With our arrival came the latest news from outside, and our popularity as visitors was assured.

  Then back to Gordon Downs. Egan killed a bullock for us, so we had a good supply of salted beef, and with several loaves of bread baked by the station cook in our tucker box, we packed up and set off into the desert.

  Leaving the grassy plains behind us, we came into scrub of turpentine and saltbush—this was the back country, the last Australian frontier. With bushes under the wheels for traction, and pushing from the rear, we made our way through dry sandy crossings. By now both Sheridan and Dudley had mastered the modern art of driving a motor car, and we rolled along making good time.

  About halfway to Tanami, we came upon an old white man named Beckney. He was quite comfortably settled into a permanent camp by a spring, a small hut with a herd of goats and a good vegetable garden, and a few old Aborigines camped close by for company. We camped the night there. Visitors were always welcome in the bush—even policemen.

  Approaching Tanami as the sun was setting, we could see the burnt-out shells of camps silhouetted against the evening sky, which wasn’t an encouraging sign. As we drove up, the small company of miners came out to meet us; a fellow named Beckitt took us into his hut.

  ‘So,’ said Dudley, ‘where are these wild blacks you’ve reported?’

  Beckitt pointed out toward the ranges. ‘See that smoke? That’s their hunting fires. They burn a patch of country, pick up small game in its wake—that’s about all they live on. It’s a hard country, not much water, not much tucker, they’re always hungry.’

  Beckitt explained how, during one raid, he and the other miners took refuge deep in a mine shaft, hiding there until the raiding party had gone, taking most of the rations with them. After much discussion, it was decided the miners had a just complaint and were in need of protection.

  Dudley turned to me and said, ‘Well, Jack, it looks as if I’ll have to leave you here.’

  ‘Hell, you can’t leave me here—not in my condition. Anyway, all I have is my rifle and swag, no rations, nothing at all.’

  ‘I’ll arrange for the people here to provide for you until I can get some stores out. Sheridan knows what’s required at a post like this—he can arrange an order for what is necessary at Halls Creek and find a way to get it out here. I understand from the miners there’s a bridle path of 200 miles that goes directly to Wave Hill Station. It won’t hurt Sheridan to do a couple of hundred miles on horseback; he’s got a good strong plant of horses there.’

  So they packed up and away they went, with Sherry showing off his newfound driving skills.

  Dudley, plump and polished still, lifted his white pith helmet in farewell.

  I stood and watched them depart until even their dust had gone.

  I was twenty-four years old, had unsound legs, and I was sole protector of a group of miners who were regularly attacked by wild blacks—desert Munjongs, the worst kind. Did I hear a whisper, ‘You’ll be back in a couple of weeks, be a nice change for you,’ or was that the wind blowing over the sharp desert sand? I picked up my swag and settled in with the miners.

  There had been a police presence at Tanami when mining boomed there in 1911. When my father arrived, the gold rush had petered out—there were other goldfields that offered a less harsh environment. The few re
maining miners, working their small diggings, were left to fend for themselves.

  They led a terrible life of privation and hardship. So far from civilised life, they had to deal with diminishing water supplies—although eventually the government dug them a well—and poor food. At times their rations could be down to flour and a few rats, certainly no vegetables, and this caused that old scourge of the bush, Barcoo rot—a type of scurvy with appallingly painful skin ulcers and general poor health. On top of all this was the trouble of dealing with the marauders. My father wrote of the camp and its difficulties in his journal:

  About a month after my arrival, a chap by the name of Frank Castle rode into our camp with a heavily loaded plant of horses and mules.

  ‘Where’s this bloke Sargeant? I’ve got a hell of a load of stores for him.’ I was right there and, with help from some of the miners, we unloaded and arranged my gear where I decided to settle camp. Castle brought all the basic rations: tea, salt, sugar, flour, saddles, ammunition and camp gear.

  Sheridan had sent Paddy, one of his trackers. A sensible choice—a tracker would not venture far from his police post in the territory of hostile tribes.

  Camp was quickly set up: a small horse yard, a bough shed with a tarpaulin covering one end to protect from wind and rain, and a table of thin saplings supported with bush timbers. Cooking, as usual in bush camps, was done on an open fire outside; a kerosene tin made a bucket to boil beef, a billy-can for tea, and a camp-oven.

  Camp complete, all that remained was the final touch: Paddy and me in our police uniforms, ready for duty. For this ‘accommodation’, the government chose to delete twenty-five pounds per year from my salary for rent, quite a considerable sum in those days.

  Later, Sheridan and his trackers made their 200-mile trip out through the bridle pad from Wave Hill Station; he had all the necessary mining information sent down from the mining warden in Darwin. Dr Cook had sent quinine, bandages, Condy’s crystals for snake bite, and other medicines—including that old standby, ‘Guts Ache’, popular with the blacks, with all of us. We had nothing else: with no refrigeration, meat—mostly dry-salted—suffered in the scorching temperatures of the hot season. The pitiful complaints of ‘Me gottem cuts ache’ from the blacks called for some treatment, however basic.

  Sherry settled in and camped with us for a few days, before starting on the long trip back. In those days, when asked about track and travelling conditions, there was always the question of water for horses or stock, and an added, ‘Bad nigger country mate,’ or perhaps it was good. Here it was bad, and if a traveller was overdue, it was a reasonable conjecture that he had been killed by blacks.

  Sheridan didn’t risk the trip again; he and his trackers were too small a band to travel that long lonely track.

  Among my loading was chain with locks. In these isolated outposts, a lone trooper and his tracker needed to be vigilant as they travelled for days through the bush, outnumbered by prisoners; an attack was likely unless the prisoners were bound in some way. Police tended to overlook lesser crimes; did not take prisoners in these distant places unless in the case of murder.

  On Sherry, the June 1922 progress report by Inspector Waters states:

  F. Sheridan—a very good man in procedure—unreliable in town as he is fond of alcohol. He is stationed where no liquor is available.

  Such consideration deserves comment: how civilised of the force to take into account the social shortcomings of its members. I can’t imagine such solicitousness for one’s weakness in today’s force.

  Even so, I never knew of anywhere in the bush that some form of liquor wasn’t available. If none was to hand, and the need was desperate enough, the men were quite innovative in their endeavours to produce something with an alcoholic punch.

  There were concoctions from the kitchen and, of course, methylated spirits, either alone or with various additives. Out bush, where loading came only a couple of times each year, metho came in 20-litre tins. It went down the throat like hot lava, and bore the quaint cocktaily name of White Lady.

  For those who drank it regularly, some processing of the raw spirit took place; it was strained through bread and underwent other measures to render it more palatable. But metho it remained, and was not everyone’s choice of spirit.

  CHAPTER 5

  Searching for Gold

  ‘It is that eternal curse on gold, which changes the soul of man in a second.’

  B . TRAVEN , THE TREASURE OF THE SIERRA MADRE

  Wandering the bush in the 1920s and 1930s were the prospectors of the Territory. You might find them travelling by camel or horse, but they were usually solitary wanderers on foot, carrying their quinine and meagre provisions. With gold dust before their eyes, they were dismissive of the sweltering heat and harsh terrain.

  The prospectors sought gold everywhere. Sometimes they found it, most times not, and sometimes they unearthed other things like copper and tin, and once in the rugged gorges near Alice Springs there was a memorable discovery of rubies—thousands of them, barrow loads of them, and a ruby rush began. Sent off to London, the rubies from near Alice Springs were valued as highly as £42 per carat, but back in Australia they were found in such overwhelming quantities gem dealers stopped accepting them and old prospectors stacked sacks of them in sheds because they’d become passé. A prospector was even reputed to have cemented the floor of his outhouse with gravel made from rubies. Who else could boast such a floor?

  Soon after setting up camp in Tanami, my father had a memorable encounter with one of these prospectors:

  Paddy and I rode out on our first patrol to familiarise ourselves with the surrounding country. Keeping an eye on distant fires, we rode far into the desert. Travelling east, we came onto a big body of water, heavily stained with leaves and debris, covered with a thick green scum. Our horses had a drink, but we decided not to risk it. This was known as Green Swamp.

  Further on, we came to a clear pool and stripped off our clothes for a swim, only to find the water so salty we popped up like corks.

  I gave the name to Rabbit Flat out there—whether they were rabbits or the desert rats, I later wondered, the name made its way into permanence on the map.

  One morning Paddy called out, ‘Camels coming!’ and through the shimmering haze a dust cloud rose up. Ghostly mounted men took familiar shape and rode into our camp. It was a well-known prospector, Jimmy Wickham, with his string of camels, a half-caste named Alec and a young Aboriginal boy.

  They unpacked and settled into camp. Jimmy was excited about a strike he claimed to have made. He tipped from a saddle bag some fine gold samples, but refused to report a find to the mining authorities, fearing a rush.

  Jimmy was an avid prospector, but unfortunately no bushman. He planned to leave Alec to care for the camels, take the Aboriginal boy and bring back men and supplies. I lent him horses and gear, and he set off, fuelled with excitement, for Halls Creek. Alec tended his camels and gave Paddy a hand with the horses. If unused to camels, horses won’t drink at the same trough; generally they tend to be uneasy in their presence.

  Paddy and Alec were inseparable, rode out together and spent hours playing card games in camp. Late one evening, Paddy reported that Alec hadn’t returned to camp. I thought maybe he had cleared off, not wanting to return to the desert with Wickham, so didn’t give it much thought.

  A few days later we saw smoke out toward Rock-Hole, a waterhole about five miles out. It didn’t auger well for anyone out there alone. We decided to take a look, armed ourselves and rode out, keeping a sharp eye and taking no chance of a spear in our backs. We saw recent burnt-out campfires, then Paddy called out, ‘Boss, Alec, im ere,’ and there among the cold ashes of a fire was all that remained of poor Alec. He had been speared and presumably eaten. The bones hadn’t been there more than a few days, and there was clear evidence the remains were Alec. We buried all that we could gather together; with the far red dots of fires along the distant range, we hastened our pace towards home.
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  Paddy took Alec’s death very hard; no doubt the manner in which he died made it so much harder to accept. As anyone would tell you, ‘Give an old-time tracker a rifle, and he was an unrelenting hunter of villains.’ I didn’t fancy the chances of these Munjongs if Paddy came across them while armed.

  When Wickham returned from Halls Creek, he had in his party Albert Schultz, uncle of Charlie Schultz, the well-known pastoralist of Humbert River Station. Jack Laurie, a local miner, joined Wickham’s party, leaving his brother Tom to work their diggings. Early next day, the party rounded up their camels, packed up their camp and, full of that optimistic enthusiasm peculiar to gold prospectors, departed with the sunrise to claim their great discovery.

  A few weeks went by—not a sign of them—and then late one evening Paddy called, ‘Smoke come up close that place Green Swamp.’ This was not the way Wickham had planned to travel; this was way to the east. Something was wrong there. Then, in they straggled. The first thing I noticed as the camels approached was that Albert Schultz wasn’t among them.

  ‘Where’s Albert?’ I asked Wickham.

  ‘He died two days ago of fever. We buried him at Green Swamp.’

  ‘Why where you there?’

  ‘We got bushed,’ he replied. ‘Luckily the camels smelled water and led us into the swamp. Albert got sick that night and died—if Alec had been with us, we’d have been on track. He was the only one who really knew that country.’

  In the party was another man with fever. We got him down; made him as comfortable as possible. It was Jack Laurie. I went down to the diggings and brought his brother up to camp. We decided that in the morning we would lay Jack in the buckboard and take him to Gordon Downs Station, then try to get him to Halls Creek, where there was a small clinic run by a nurse.