Chapter 2. Waiting For Rain; and A Month’s Hard Digging
On returning to Jervois McCullock and Johns waited anxiously for rain. Everything was kept ready, so when the Unka Creek flooded their mine once more they could again go “prospecting”. Even a minor event would do, as long as it was enough to run water. Seepage from a creek flow always made the Attutra unworkable for a while.
Day after day the two kept looking to the north-west hoping to see clouds, but few clouds came.
One Monday morning, as Johns was preparing breakfast, McCullock took a mug of tea outside in the early twilight. He wanted to watch the dawn and check the sky, he told himself, though the real reason was his mounting sense of frustration. The waiting seemed endless and the tension unbearable.
Sunrise gave no solace; the day dawned clear and bright. Disheartened, he sat under the gum tree to reflect on the situation and roll a cigarette.
Nothing appeared to be changing. —Empty skies, days hot as buggery, the odd whirlywind trying to tear the place apart, not a breath of wind otherwise and flies by the million, always bloody flies by the million. And all he could predict was more of the same by the look of things.
Johns and Sayd had seen a shower off to the south east when they’d gone to Unka for water the previous day (they’d claimed) but nothing more than that. Coming home they’d had a flat tyre. And Twofoot’s group was still not there.
Perhaps rain had fallen near Marshall Bar and he’d changed his mind about moving, McCullock mused. A storm north of the river would certainly have relieved their bush tucker situation. It was also possible he’d taken his people elsewhere.
Water was not an issue. The soakage had plenty.
But one afternoon something did change. North of the ranges a few woolly cumulus began to collect. Soon the collection had piled into a mass and a storm cell developed. Then a shower started and the storm cell grew.
And grew. In little over an hour what began as a minor cloud bank had become a towering, black-hearted monster. It rolled across the big Jervois escarpments like the coming of Armageddon, a great fire-filled darkness swallowing all before it in a tumult of lightning and thunder, hail, wind and torrential rain.
Everyone on the field stopped what they were doing to watch, each of them hoping it would stay clear of their mines and dwellings – everyone, that is, except for McCullock and Johns.
Those two didn’t care. Within an hour the Unka Creek would be flowing; soon they could head off to Marshall Bar.
But the maelstrom that came roaring down the stony channel was considerably more than the pair had bargained on. Right up to their house the torrent surged, tearing away the protective embankment around their mine and filling it with mud, boulders and rubble – and the trunk of a very large gum tree.
By next morning the water had subsided and the three went around to see how their workings had fared. When McCullock saw the devastation he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Then he remembered: what they’d be getting from the quartz reef hill would be more than just a living.
They were going to be rich. Bugger the copper and silver mine.
Sayd left a day in front of the others on the second occasion, with six pack-horses and only two spare saddle mounts. One packhorse was carrying his swag and provisions but the others were bare.
Before he set off McCullock had explained the reasons for their return, as until then he’d not been told of their find. Yet secrecy was not the old miner’s only concern, and driving home from the first trip he’d given considerable thought the issue of their tyre tracks. Other miners looking around Marshall Bar for a stray bullock to butcher might realise whose vehicle had made them, so arousing suspicions about subsequent visits to the area.
A worrisome night followed, but by morning McCullock had an answer. He would badger the other miners with every hare-brained prospecting scheme he could think of. —Ad infinitum; at every opportunity. At the same time he’d urge them to join their expeditions. With luck this would have the desired result.
“McCullock?” they’d say. “Been in the bush too bloody long; must have a touch of the sun. —Or too much rum.” And they’d have a good laugh when he and Johns went out again, without giving a thought as to where they might be going, and why.
Something McCullock did not want known, however, was that during the interim he and Johns had made a gold separator, a contraption of highly variable construction called a dryblower. These simple devices had been used on the earliest of the country’s goldfields, wherever and whenever lack of water was a problem. They worked via a hand operated bellows and were easily built from packing case timber and leather (or later, car tube rubber).
Wet separation was never considered. The limited amount of water they could carry to the dig on pack horses made only the final cleanup of the gold manageable out there (via a small gold pan in a basin of water), and this was better done at the Attutra anyway, save for the risk of discovery.
But any miner worth his salt could recognise a dryblower from a hundred and fifty metres and McCullock knew what would happen should it be seen. Their “crazy prospectors” ruse would be finished for a start, and from that moment on they’d be watched, day and night.
Attempts would be made to track their earlier movements, putting their find and potential fortune in jeopardy – and their lives along with it should they try to defend the place. And no gold was worth dying for.
Nor was pegging a claim any answer, for in the immediate sense this part of the country was lawless. Certainly the Mines Department and Mining Warden’s Court dealt with such matters, but months might pass before the machinery of Justice could allocate time to do so. Consequently, a small rich find such as theirs could be plundered without the authorities even learning of its existence, leaving the Law Courts to sift the long-cold embers of any criminal act or wrongdoing that might later come to light.
As a result the dryblower was loaded onto the truck in darkness on the night of their departure, along with all the saddles, swags, equipment and provisions. The whole lot was then covered with a heavy tarpaulin – in the unlikely event of rain, should anyone have asked.
Twofoot’s camp was deserted when Sayd rode in to Marshall Bar that second time. A storm north of the river had filled a small outlying rockhole and the group had moved up to there. Nearby was a watercourse where the women knew they could find yams.
Sayd watered the horses at the soakage then pushed on to the campsite tree, after which he unloaded his gear and hobbled-out the animals to graze. That done, he made a fire, had dinner and settled into his swag for the night.
McCullock and Johns turned up early the next morning. They’d departed Jervois well before first light, with their only stop being at the soakage to fill the water drum and panniers. Sayd went out for the horses on first hearing their engine, but left a billy of water simmering by the fire ready for the men to make tea.
When he arrived back the saddle horses were readied, following which the mining and other gear was transferred across from the truck. A little later, brimming with enthusiasm, the three mounted up and moved off. In McCullock’s saddlebag were eight heavy-duty calico pouches that Johns had hand sewn for the occasion. Both men were confident they’d be filled.
Twofoot came on their tracks later that morning. He’d taken out the hunting party early because the rockhole was nearly exhausted, and by mid afternoon was leading everyone back to the soakage.
Not far from their Marshall Bar camp a ridge had to be crossed, giving a view of the country all round. A smudge of dust on the southern horizon told of Sayd’s returning with the horse team. They were bare, their saddles all left at the gold dig.
Ten days the boy remained at Marshall Bar. Then, early on the eleventh, in accordance with McCullock’s instructions, he rounded up the horses and set off into the desert again.
That evening the expedition returned with everything except the dryblower. Rather than carry it back and forth McCullock had stowed it in a mallee thicket und
er a tarpaulin weighed down with rocks.
In the leading packhorse’s saddlebags were Johns’ eight calico pouches, six of them full and another very nearly. And the gold so far taken was but a fraction of the seam’s total content.
As they rode along McCullock explained to Sayd how he too would share in the proceeds. It would be a lesser share but a share nonetheless, he said, and it would make the boy rich.
He also stressed how vital it was the gold not be mentioned nor the hill from whence it came, then explained how even the slightest slip might reveal their secret. If that were to happen, he said, then all would be lost, as overnight the place would be crawling with people trying to track down where they had been.
They’d return as soon as possible, he added. They’d mine out the gold seam as quick as they could and get every last ounce.
This was not McCullock’s first mention of secrecy. In fact, since their earlier return home, he’d harped-on to Johns about it repeatedly. Also, following that first visit to Marshall Bar (and with Sayd still innocent of their gold discovery), McCullock had seen fit to change the rules by which the boy was allowed to go hunting.
Previously he’d had to promise two things before receiving the rifle and bullets: to go and return via the deserted northern leases and to stay between the range and the Lucy Creek road. Now came a third item. This was – in the unlikely event of his meeting someone – to give a wave or polite greeting and immediately walk away.
McCullock had no doubts about the boy’s commitment to him; it was absolute and the old miner knew it. But whenever rum soured his disposition this would change.
Sayd mostly saw it coming and would try for an early exit, as failure to do so meant being roundly and drunkenly abused. His loyalty would be questioned; claims of scheming and treachery would be levelled at him wholesale and vows made to kill him should even a rumour of the gold find its way back to McCullock’s ears.
Rebuttals would go unheard, as would attempts to swear loyalty or argue how betrayal would be illogical and pointless. And around and around it would go until he either managed to escape or the miner fell back unconscious.
The following morning McCullock would claim surprise at the lad’s protests and swear that he trusted Sayd implicitly, as in fact he did. Sayd would just put it behind him and go back to work.
Johns would’ve had a few rums as well. He’d remember nothing, given he’d remained conscious.
Back at Jervois the two resumed their “crazy prospectors” role, tired and disheartened, certainly, but with spirits unbroken. And McCullock was soon acting the super-optimist again and spruiking his wild and eccentric schemes.
To complete this picture of normality a quick and well publicised return was made to their general routine. They threw themselves into the mammoth task of clearing the mine as if their lives depended on it, chopping up the errant tree trunk then attacking the mud, rocks, rubble and debris now half filling their workings.
At the Sunday get-togethers they complained with the others of questionable assays and poor returns, at the same time sympathising generally with their suggestions of chucking it in and heading back to town. Back at the house, however, plans and preparations were being put in place for a longer, third expedition to Marshall Bar.
They’d be ready to go at the first opportunity, McCullock told the other two, and this time they’d completely mine out the seam. Accomplishing this would mean working night and day, he added, because they’d have to be out of there and well on the way back to Jervois before anyone could start wondering where they were and whether they’d had a breakdown – or worse, if they might have found something.
That way they would get every last ounce of gold that was there to be had, he reassured them, and get themselves home again with no one being the wiser.
McCullock's Gold Page 3
