From Chart House To Bush Hut Part 3

"Noo chum, ain't yer?" asked Dad, as I handed his plug back.

"Yes," I answered, "bound up for Atherton."

"Ah!" he returned, "that's the place fer cows n' corn;" then, puffing at his old gumbucket with drowsy contentment, "I mind when I wis up there in '90...," and a small flow of anecdote. He was an accomplished raconteur; had been all over Queensland, mostly mining; possessed the usual retentive memory of the illiterate, and really turned out to be what in more polished circles is usually referred to as a "charming old gentleman." He told us most interesting yarns of his experiences. Mines, sheep, prospecting, scrub-felling, fire and flood--pretty well everything. I must say though that he didn't string me on, but, knowing where I was bound, gave me some sound advice which I laid to heart.

Thus we pa.s.sed the night, yarning, smoking, dozing; while the train rattled and b.u.mped along. Going up a steep grade somewhere near the Gla.s.shouse Mountains, the carriage got quite a perceptible tilt fore and aft, and the long series of terrific jerks the engine gave, in her efforts to negotiate the pinch, brought my heart into my mouth thinking what would happen if a coupling broke and sent us adrift back down the grade. Daybreak showed us scrubby, measly-looking forest country, flat and uninteresting. Then, about 10 a.m., Bundaberg. A wash, some tea, and a bit of a leg-stretcher along that fine wide avenue, Bourbon-street.

Back to the train, more hilly stretches of forest gradually merging into the dismal mangrove-bordered mud flats, and we slowed down and brought up at Gladstone.

Into the main street I went under the guidance of my fellow-travellers, three of whom were Gladstonians, and popped into a pub for lunch (_only_ for lunch, of course), where my Scandinavian acquaintance, who possessed a quiet sort of dry humour, created a bit of a disturbance. The dining room was full. Soup was served, the hostess, distinctly an Irish woman, personally attending to us. Olaf smelt his soup, made a face, cascaded the liquid with his spoon, and generally made it apparent that something was wrong. The hostess, with the danger-signal flying in her cheeks and all the room's attention attracted, bore down on us.

"And is the soup not t' yer liking, sirr?"

"Vell, ma'am," said Olaf, "do you know fot dey gall dis stupf een _my_ contree?"

"An'-phwat-wud-they-be-afther-callin'-the-good-soup-in-yeer-counthry?"

with terrific emphasis.

"Soup, ma'am!" said he quietly, and went on drinking it with gusto, for it was good.

Not quite in the best of good taste, perhaps; but the roar of laughter was good to hear, and the hostess joined in with a good-humoured, "Gwan wid ye, y' heathen."

Lunch over, we boarded the train again for the ten minutes' run to the long curve of wharf where the A.U.S.N. boat was lying. A few minutes'

bustling confusion, whilst we burrowed in the heap of baggage for our personal belongings, and I superintended the embarkation of my chests, which had miraculously turned up from Wallangarra the previous afternoon. Then myself, Olaf and old Dad boarded the steamer; they were bound for Townsville. Half an hour sufficed to get the mail bags and some odds and ends of freight aboard, then again I heard the old familiar orders, "Single up!" "Let go aft!" etc., and felt quite out of it because it had nothing to do with me. Away we went down the harbour, and bore up towards Mackay as the sun slowly sank behind the landward hills.

It was a fine night, and after tea I spent a good while promenading the p.o.o.p, watching the dim shapes of the points of land coming abeam and pa.s.sing in slow procession astern. I built many castles in the air, and I smile as I think how many fortunes I made between Brisbane and Cairns.

But wouldn't life be a dreary business if a bloke didn't let his thoughts take wing occasionally and let him forget the monotonous grind of daily routine?

Hallo! Six bells. A musical call from the look out, the staccato answer from the bridge, and I went below, tumbled into a sufficiently comfortable bunk and knew no more until the morning.

CHAPTER VI.

THE PROMISED LAND.

I thought Townsville the hottest place I'd ever struck (I hadn't at that time experienced a summer north wind in Melbourne; that pleasure was reserved for the week I spent down south when I got married), and caught myself finding points of similarity between it and Aden; rather unfairly though, for later on I found Townsville to be not too bad at all; also there are a lot more trees and green stuff than one would suppose, looking at the place from seaward. On arrival we trans.h.i.+pped into another little steamer running up to Cairns. Had time for a run round town, and a raid on a fruit store; then all aboard! and away we went, rus.h.i.+ng frantically North at the furious speed of nine knots.

For a wonder our tub arrived in fairly decent time in Cairns, 6 a.m. to be precise, and I had to fly round to collect my gear, and get up to the station in time for the 7 a.m. Atherton train. I only got a fleeting glimpse of Cairns on this occasion, but subsequent visits gave me the impression of a rather warm but very pretty little town, with wide, well-cared-for streets, some fine buildings, plenty of splendid old shady trees, and innumerable gardens in a riot of tropical colour. The mosquitoes are a bit hot though.

Our train, after pa.s.sing through some swampy-looking, flat, scrubby country, got into a teeming tropical wilderness of green. Houses embosomed among cocoanut palms and mango trees--canefields, banana and pineapple plantations line the railway on both sides. Pity though, as I found afterwards, that such a large Chinese element is settled hereabout. The heathen shouldn't have so much of such a brilliant, beautiful Paradise.

After leaving Freshwater, the line starts to ascend. You look ahead, and see the high range, with a huge cleft in it, up which the line goes--the Barron Gorge. Here and there landslides disclose the rich red soil, contrasting vividly with the lavish tropical green clothing every foot of ground. The grade becomes steeper, and the panting engine seems to have all her work cut out. Higher and higher, past a brilliant jungle of wild mangoes, bananas, ferns, figs and strange beautiful flowers. Now the great cliff towers hundreds of feet over our heads, and on the other side is a sheer drop of more hundreds into the brawling torrent below.

Soon the tunnels start (eleven, I think it is) in quick succession.

The first voyagers along this line (I, of course, being one) stop out on the platform. The sophisticated stay inside and close doors and windows.

We soon learn why, for in each tunnel we outsiders are subjected to a machine-gun fire of hot cinders and flue from Puffing Billy ahead.

However, the glimpses of the Gorge, Cairns and the sea--'tween tunnels--are well worth getting s.m.u.tty for.

Now the tunnels are left behind at an elbow of the Gorge, and the view from here is really magnificent. You must be six or seven hundred feet above the river bed, and can view its sinuous course to the sea, through the rich cultivated lands below, all bathed in the brilliant suns.h.i.+ne.

That white cl.u.s.ter is part of Cairns, and the huge blue plain of sea makes a background to a picture hard to beat. There are several places between this point and the Falls, where (provided one is not a lady) one could lean out and spit 700 feet into the river, if you felt so inclined or your pipe turned dog on you.

On the other side of the train a chaotic waste of huge grey boulders--up, up, up--until you rick your neck looking to see how high they do extend. Still the prolific vegetation, with different types appearing now. The other side of the gorge from the river level to summit, and right and left as far as you can see, is one unbroken, close-packed ma.s.s of timber of a rather sombre sage-green foliage. Miles upon miles of it--and still we import timber into this benighted country. When will we get sense enough to hang instantly anyone describing himself as an importer?

We cross several spider-web-looking trestle bridges, then pa.s.s the lovely little Stoney Creek falls, streaming like a white lace curtain into a limpid pool below, and so close to the train that after a heavy rain storm the spray wets the carriages. A very sharp curve, past Red Bluff, where the big landslide occurred some years ago; another curve back, and we are in the Upper Gorge. Instantly a distinct drop in temperature is apparent, and a cool refres.h.i.+ng breeze fans the heated brow. A few minutes more brings us to the Barron Falls; so close that seemingly one could jump from the carriage into the--well, the place where the falling water ought to be, and is--in flood time only.

Ordinarily the falls are disappointing. All you see is a long, broad slide of blue-grey, water-polished rock, going almost sheer down some 750 feet or so, with a few comparative trickles flowing down. See it in flood though, in the early months of the year, and nothing could be grander or more imposing. The train fairly rocks to the earth-shaking crash of the mighty ma.s.s of water. The noise is literally stunning.

We are on the Tableland now--level country more or less right through to Atherton. From Kuranda on it is somewhat monotonous forest country, until after pa.s.sing Rocky Creek I espied a cultivated plain, with a grey wall of high timber, close, compact, apparently impenetrable--the Scrublands at last!

My heart bounded as I looked at it. I had been told of its enormous timber, with gruesome tales of accident and mischance falling it. When you chopped trees from a springboard, I had been informed, you had one foot in the grave, and the other on an orange peel. But it was so new and enchanting to me. I wanted to get at it now! at once!

We were presently in the maize country. It looked beautiful. Miles of waving, dark green, ta.s.selled corn just cobbing. Past Tolga, then a short ten minutes' run, and Atherton at last about one o'clock. I bolted some lunch, then, with a map of the district I wanted to see first under my arm, dived into the local Lands Office.

"I want to see this place, please. How do I get to it?"

"Oh, ah, yes! Not a bad district. Bit far out, but perhaps it _is_ the nearest to the railway at present. Well, the Malanda train leaves at 3 p.m. Enquire for John Raynor at your station. He'll show you round."

"Oh, good. I can get to my station to-night easy?"

"Yes; there's a pub there. Just come up?"

"Only arrived this morning."

"Oh, well, glad to see you, and we hope you'll stop up here. Anything we can do for you, you know----"

"Thanks. I'll remember. Good-day," and away I went.

Three o'clock couldn't come quick enough.... Into the train....

Cornfields again.... Tolga ... more corn ... thick belts of scrub close aboard both sides. Then gra.s.s paddocks, with cattle knee-deep in the rich herbage, gazing at us with round-eyed nonchalance as we rattled by.

Ah! So this is the famous Atherton country, eh? Well, it looks good.

Here's my station. Out I tumbled with my luggage. At last! I made my way to the pub and enquired for Raynor, who was away, but would be back to-morrow, so I put up there for the night. It was a rough shop in those days. Some timber cutters and teamsters were in town (one pub and the station), and most of them were half-seas over. Consequently it was about 1 a.m. when I got to sleep. Never mind; to-day I would see my selection. The country looked so good to me that I thought the devil himself wouldn't drag me out of it.

If I could have seen the future! Well, I don't know. I think I'd have gone on with it. Anyway, I'm glad I did. Who'd sell a farm to go to sea?

CHAPTER VII.

MY SELECTION.

Bright and early I was out, and had a plunge in the beautiful clear creek running nearby. Let me say here that the permanent clear sandy creeks are one of the chief attractions of the Tableland. Practically every selection has one. Most have two or three.

I got back to the pub in time to greet Raynor. Someone in the train the previous day had told him about me, and he had ridden in early to see me. He was a tall, dark, stoutish man, good humour writ large over his rather weather-beaten face. He was clean shaved, save for a scrubbing brush under the nose, and was somewhat untidily dressed in the prevailing style of grey flannel and dungarees. He gave me a good firm hand grip (I loathe your bloke who tenders you a limp lump of dough).