A Fortunate Life

by A B Facey

  After dinner I helped the girls to wash up and then I walked around Geraldton for about an hour. It wasn’t a very big town. Some of the streets had lights. As night came they were lit by a man on horseback. They burned on some kind of gas. When I went back to the boarding-house, Mrs Stafford and her daughter were playing cards with a strange man and woman. I didn’t go into that room but went up to bed.

  I must have slept soundly because when I woke up the sun was shining. I jumped up, got dressed and went into the kitchen. Mary was there and she said, ‘You’re just in time, I was going to call out to you. Mum’s out chopping wood.’ She always called Mrs Stafford, Mum. I went out to the backyard and there was the lady swinging an axe like any man. The wood was in lengths of three to four feet. I asked if I could cut the wood for her. She replied that she didn’t think I could manage, as the wood was very hard and should be cut in one foot lengths so it would be easy to split. I said, ‘Let me have a go, I have used an axe often.’ She handed me the axe and stood and watched me, no doubt thinking that I would soon be convinced that she was right.

  My way of cutting the lengths to oven size was different from Mrs Stafford’s. The pieces that were three inches thick or less, I cut into foot lengths. The thicker pieces, I split down to two or three inch strips, then cut these into lengths to fit the oven. After watching me for a few minutes, Mrs Stafford went back into the kitchen. A few minutes later she opened the door and called me to breakfast.

  I picked up an armful of wood and took it into the large wood-box she had in the kitchen. After washing my hands and face in the laundry I joined Mrs Stafford and the two girls for breakfast. As I sat down at the table, I asked Mrs Stafford how she liked the wood. She said, ‘Lovely, where did you learn to cut wood like that?’ I told her I had worked for a new settler in the wheat-belt and that he had shown me how to use an axe. Mrs Stafford said, ‘Do you think you could cut me enough wood each morning to fill that box while you’re here?’ I said that I would be glad to. She then said, ‘If you do that, I will give your board to you for fifteen shillings a week because cutting that wood is killing me.’ So I filled the wood-box each morning. It took about one and a half hours. After that I used to go for walks around Geraldton.

  At this time of the year everything was dusty and showing the effects of the beginning summer. On one of my walks into the country, I came across a camping ground. It was about one and a half miles out of Geraldton in an easterly direction near a Government well. I was standing looking down the well when I was startled by two large half-breed stag hounds coming towards me, barking and looking as if they were going to tear me to pieces. Then I heard a man’s loud voice calling the dogs off, and to my relief, they obeyed. To me the man yelled, ‘They won’t hurt you. They always make a big fuss when they see a stranger but they won’t bite you.’

  He was a big man with a large black beard. He lived in a tent pitched under a shady tree, and he also had a large tarpaulin stretched over a pole, with each side tied down to make a nice shady place for meals. He invited me to come to his camp and have a chat. I did this and he told me he was a kangaroo shooter and that he always came into Geraldton around December to sell his skins and get some extras for Christmas. He said, ‘I never stay here for Christmas though. I like the quiet of the bush. Geraldton is too rowdy for me at Christmas time. I like my beer, whisky and wine but not all in one week. I take whatever I need into the bush and have a little whenever I feel like it. It acts as a tonic to me that way, I never drink enough to make me drunk, so I have my Christmas cheer all over Christmas and into the New Year. Sometimes the supply I take with me lasts into the end of January. I buy the same amount each December.’

  He then asked me to have a drink with him. I said I was sorry but I could not drink intoxicating liquor. I said, ‘I am under age for that. And another thing, I promised my Grandma that I would not drink it, ever, as long as I live.’ He looked at me suddenly (I thought I had made him mad), then he said, ‘Son, I drank every drink that there was by the time I was ten years old and I bet you are older than that, aren’t you?’ I said, ‘Yes, I’m fourteen.’ ‘Then you’re not too young to drink. But making a promise is another thing. Now, once you make a promise, no matter what happens, don’t ever break it. You no doubt think that I am a rough, untidy and don’t-care person, but I like a body with principles.’

  This rough, bearded man was something out of the ordinary. He made me feel good. I liked him. He asked me, ‘How did you manage to come to Geraldton. Have your folks moved here or are you living with friends?’ I told him all about my past and how I came to Geraldton looking for work, and that I was stopping at Mrs Stafford’s place. He was quiet for awhile and then he said, ‘You’ve come to the wrong place. You should have gone further up north to get a job on a station. The station managers and owners generally go to Carnarvon and get on a boat there for Fremantle. Sometimes they come into Mullewa, that is about sixty miles in an easterly direction from here. I’m going out there next week. That’s my starting place for my kangaroo shooting.

  Then the man told me all about his work. He was going to work the station commencing some hundred miles north-east of Mullewa. Sometimes he stayed from one month to three months on each station. The station owners and managers all gave him his supplies free while he was shooting ’roos to encourage him to continue. The skins, he kept and sold. The station owners also paid him a bounty of one pound on any dingo scalps. They branded the scalps and then got one pound from the Government as well, so a dingo scalp was worth two pounds to him. He also got a two shillings bounty for each goat he shot and he sold the goat skins for three to four shillings each. The stations paid a two shilling bounty for every emu’s head he brought in. (He could sell all his skins at Mullewa but the dingo scalps had to be brought to a Police Station and there wasn’t one at Mullewa. He came into Geraldton once a year.) ‘So,’ he said, ‘taking all these bounties into account with the kangaroo skins and the free stores, I make good money.’

  ‘Now,’ he said suddenly, ‘if you like, you can come with me. I’m going out to Mullewa next week. You may pick up a job there. What made you want a job like that? Can you ride a horse?’ I replied. ‘Yes, and I love the bush and horses. A man from up North told my stepfather there is plenty of jobs for lads up North on the stations. Things are bad this harvest down in the wheat-belt.’

  This kind man told me that his name was Bill Oliver and he said that he would like me to call him Bill. I agreed and told him my name. We shook hands on that. I made my way back to town after he had made me promise that I would come out to his camp in a day or so, and let him know if I was going with him to Mullewa.

  On my way back to Mrs Stafford’s Coffee Palace, I wondered how I would like kangaroo shooting. It seemed exciting. I had my own rifle and wondered how many ’roos it was possible to take in a week, not forgetting that each ’roo had to be skinned, the skin taken back to camp, pegged out to dry and then painted with weevil paint to preserve it. I had seen Uncle do this when he first killed ’roos for the meat and skins. I liked shooting and I knew I was a good shot.

  When I arrived back at the Coffee Palace I asked Mrs Stafford if she knew Bill Oliver. She said that he was a kind, honest, and respected man. I told her that he wanted me to go with him to Mullewa next week as he thought I would have a better chance of getting a job on a station from out there. She thought for a while, then said, ‘I think he’s right. If you don’t get a job, you can come back with the mail coachman. He goes out there every fortnight and carries passengers either way.’

  Next morning I fully made up my mind to go with Bill if no job turned up before he left for Mullewa. I went out to his camp that afternoon and told him. He seemed pleased and told me I could camp with him at Mullewa. He expected to be there at least a week before he moved out to his kangaroo shooting. I went out to Bill’s camp every second afternoon. And I walked a lot, sometimes along the beach and sometimes out into the bush.

  A few days later, Bill
made up his mind to move on. I hadn’t found a job, so he asked me to camp with him that night so we could get away early next morning. He wanted to be in Mullewa for Christmas dinner with a friend, a lady whose husband had been a good friend of his. Bill said, ‘He was killed about three years ago. Thrown from a horse and landed on his head. The fall broke his neck.’ Bill told me that the lady, May, worked at the hotel and lived about half a mile out, in a small house on her own. When her husband died Bill gave her money as a loan and helped her, so she made him promise to come and have Christmas dinner every year.

  We decided that I should leave my tin trunk and rifle with Mrs Stafford in case I didn’t get a job. So, about five days before Christmas, we left early in the morning, bound for Mullewa.

  27

  ROAD TO MULLEWA

  Bill had two horses and they seemed to be part of his life. He loved his horses. He used one in the shafts of the cart and the other attached to the cart, outside the shafts. A horse used in this way was called the outrigger. Bill had quite a nice seat on the cart with a back rest all nicely padded and covered with lamb skin. I asked him how long it would take to go the sixty miles to Mullewa and he said, ‘About three days or a little more. I never hurry my horses, I let them go at their own pace.’

  So we travelled very slowly. The sun as it climbed in the sky got hotter and hotter. The horses, although only travelling at a slow walking pace, were perspiring freely. Bill looked at his watch and said, ‘It’s half past nine. There’s a watering place about a mile further on. We’ll stay there and rest for a few hours. It’s better to travel in the early morning and late in the evening these hot days. It’s much better for the horses anyway.’ The two dogs walked in the shadow of the cart during the heat.

  The watering place turned out to be a well. Bill said that it was over ninety feet deep and there was about ten feet of water in the bottom. When hauled to the top, the water was lovely and cold and fresh to drink. The horses and dogs enjoyed it. We lit a fire, boiled the billy and had a mug of tea and something to eat. Later we lay on the tarpaulin under a nice shady tree to rest. I went sound asleep and Bill had to shake me awake. He said that it was half past three. We had another drink of tea, then harnessed the horses and set off again.

  We travelled on with the sun behind us. There was a long period of twilight, then night came and it was very dark. Bill kept the horses going. He asked if I was tired and I said, ‘Yes, tired of sitting.’ He had been telling me that he expected to finish kangaroo shooting soon. He had been at it for over six years and he thought he might give it away and have a change. He said, ‘So you see, Bert, you aren’t the only one that may be looking for a job. I very seldom mention my business or my intentions to anyone but I feel so happy about something I want someone to know. Of course, I may be counting my chickens before they hatch.’

  At that moment the horses turned off the track (the road to Mullewa after it passed the outskirts of Geraldton was only a bush track). Bill said, ‘They know where they’re going. This is the twenty-three-mile well. It’s where we camp tonight. Bert, I will tell you tomorrow all about my plans.’ This well was only about twenty feet deep but the water in it was just like the last one.

  After we had a meal, we lay down to rest for the night. The dogs were acting strange – they wanted to get near to us. Bill growled at them, and told me that they were scared of dingoes at night. The dingo smell makes a tame dog scared. There are very few tame dogs that will attack a dingo.

  This dingo business not only scared the dogs. I didn’t like them either, and for the rest of the night I had very little sleep. I didn’t let Bill know my feelings. He hadn’t been lying down long before he was snoring, but not me. Then one of the dingoes howled not far away and a funny feeling ran up and down my spine. The two dogs huddled in closer to me and I didn’t mind a bit. All through the night the dingoes kept howling. So many things went through my mind. (You have to hear a dingo howl close by to know how frightening it can be.)

  I was glad when daylight came. Bill didn’t have to shake me to wake me – I was wide awake already. While we were having a bite to eat I spoke to Bill about the dingoes. He said, ‘There’s a large granite hill range not far from here. It’s a breeding ground for dingoes. There’s big caves going up under the boulders where they can have their pups and no one can get to them. They won’t come close enough to hurt you. The only time a dingo will attack you is when he cannot escape. Then he puts up and fights for his life.’

  We got on our way before sunrise, and what a sunrise it was. Everything was a golden colour – the hills, the trees. I hadn’t seen anything like it before. Bill said, ‘If you get a job on a station two or three hundred miles north-east, you’ll see sunrises prettier than this, and some beautiful sunsets too. Some of the country up North seems to all come to life at sunrise and kinda slows off at sunset.’

  As we slowly made our way along the track to Mullewa, Bill said, ‘Now I’ll tell you about my plans. This lady I was telling you about – the one I have my Christmas Day with – wants me to get a regular job such as a station hand or manager or something like that, and settle down. I think I brought this about myself because last Christmas Day I was so happy with her I had a little more to drink than I should have, and I asked her to marry me. She wouldn’t agree because she wouldn’t like me being away from her for long periods. She said she would be glad to marry me if I could be with her all the time. When I left her after last Christmas she told me to think about finding some way to be able to do this. She said to me, ‘Bill, I love you, and I feel sure we could be happy together, but we must be together all of the time. I don’t want a husband that I can only have once or twice a year.’

  Bill then told me that when he arrived back in Mullewa about two weeks ago, the Postmaster had told him that a large stock firm in Perth was advertising for station managers or stockmen with a good knowledge of the North and an understanding of cattle. He said, ‘I sent an application in the day I arrived in Geraldton this trip. I haven’t received an answer yet. It takes about three weeks or a month to get a letter to Perth and return, if they answer straight away. The mail comes up through Narngulu to Mullewa. So I won’t leave Mullewa until the Wednesday after the New Year – that is mail day. I don’t want to build your hopes up too much, Bert, but if you haven’t a job by the time I leave, you could come with me kangaroo shooting. If I get a favourable reply to my letter, I may be able to fit you in with me too. That’s why I am telling you all this. Now you know what’s on my mind.’

  Then Bill started to talk about May. ‘You will like her,’ he said, ‘she is a wonderful woman. No funny business. She is as straight as can be and very respectable, and honest as they come.’

  The horses were walking very slow. It was a very hot day. After half past ten we stopped at a nice shady spot. There wasn’t any place to water the horses. Bill said that there was a well further on, but we wouldn’t get there until late that evening. We had three large waterbags with us, so, when we unhitched the horses, Bill put half the contents of one of the bags into a flat canvas bag and gave them a drink. We made a small fire and using water out of another waterbag, filled a billy can to make a billy of tea. Bill gave the dogs a drink by turning his felt hat inside out, and filling the crown with water. After we had something to eat and drank our tea, we spread the tarpaulin out on the ground in the shade and rested.

  We were up and away again about three o’clock and travelled along slowly. I walked for a few miles, I was tired of sitting for so long. We arrived at the watering place that evening. Bill said, pointing to an area of green grass, ‘That is what we call a spring formation of the ground. Water is forced up out of the earth and runs all year round. It is beautiful fresh water. The early settlers and travellers dug a large hole at this spot and stoned it up.’ The hole was about eight feet wide, six feet deep, and raised about two feet above the surface of the earth. The water had filled the round hole and was running over the top and down into a creek. Bil
l said, ‘This is a wild animals’ watering place. You will hear some frightening noises tonight. Wild horses, kangaroos, dingoes will all be here after the water.’ We made camp about two hundred yards from the water hole. Bill said that there was nothing to worry about.

  When we unharnessed, watered and fed the horses, Bill said, ‘We are only about eighteen miles from Mullewa. We will make it tomorrow easily.’

  The weather was much cooler that night. I was very tired and went to sleep a few minutes after we turned in. I slept right through and when I awakened, it was daylight, and Bill had the billy boiled. He asked, ‘Did you hear the dingoes last night?’ I said, ‘I didn’t hear a sound. I must have slept right through the night.’ He said, ‘You must have been very tired because there was a terrible din. I was wakened several times and you hadn’t moved. The dingoes came very close and the dogs were barking. There were a lot of wild horses galloping about too, and neighing. Sounded like the mares calling their foals, no doubt protecting them from the dingoes.’

  When we got under way Bill said that this would be the quickest trip he had made. It usually took three and a half days from Geraldton to Mullewa but we would be there in less than three. The sky was overcast and it looked like a storm was coming up.

  Bill seemed to be happy in himself. He talked a lot about May. ‘You’ll like her,’ he said. ‘When her husband was killed, she was left all alone. I came in from the bush and stayed with her. She sent word to me by a black stockman. He rode over two hundred miles to get me. Her husband and I were good mates. I used to work with him well-sinking when I first came to Mullewa. His name was Jack Prang. He could do almost anything. He specialised in horse-breaking, well-sinking and stockyard building, and he wanted me to give in kangaroo shooting and go into partnership with him. I almost did once. I wish I had – it may have saved his life. He was on his own when he got killed. Horse-breaking is a two man job.’