23 August 1934

NATIVE WITCH DOCTOR PUNISHES TRIBAL DESERTER

Why A Station Lost A Stockman

Every station has two or three black boys employed. They make good, reliable stockdrivers, and are experts at breaking in young horses. Chirripana had four boys in constant work, and the boss thought he could do with another. His chance came in the early spring, when a wandering tribe camped on the reserve near the station homestead. Towards evening two young 'bucks' came round the stables to see what was going on and the boss started to talk to the ablest-looking of the two, a lad of about 18. He still bore the tribal initiation marks on his chest, and seemed in poor condition, though strong and alert. After some conversation, which did not seem to be progressing too well, the blacks being fairly wild and somewhat unaccustomed to English, the boss cut a plug of tobacco for the elder, and watched the lad's eyes light up as he popped it into his mouth and started to chew it. Just then one of the blacks who was regularly employed on the station came along, and the stranger's eyes opened more as he saw him chewing away unconcernedly, and showing every sign of having just had a good feed. The boss knew his work, and took the black lad over to the house, where he procured a bottle of wine and gave him a long drink. The lad was so overjoyed, although it was probably his first taste of wine and tobacco, that he could not conceal his excitement. 

The boss then mentioned, as casually as he could, that all his hands received the same treatment, and he could do with another one very soon. After this had sunk in he left the lad and busied himself in the sheds. The tribe was given an old ewe and a few pounds of flour, and that night had a great feast on the reserve. 

Next morning, soon after daybreak, the blacks set off for the north; evidently conditions had improved further up in their own country. Two days later towards sundown, I noticed a weary figure approaching the station from the north, and as it drew nearer I saw that it was the black lad the boss had baited. I had a few words with him, but it was the boss he wanted. He soon found him and blurted out, 'Me work horses. Me get baccy, me get pinky?' 'Sure enough,' said the boss, and he told the lad to turn in with the other black boys after he had been fixed up with an old shirt and a pair of pants. That night after tea the boss called the new hand, whom we had christened Chalk, over to the house arid gave him a plug of tobacco and a bottle of wine. By morning the lad had tasted it sufficiently to be addicted to it for life; and thus the station secured another black hand. Chalk was given an old horse called Candle to ride, and his job was watching the waterholes, pulling out bogged sheep and skinning the dead ones. He was a good lad at his work, and when he got his pay two months or so later he went along with the other black hands to the nearest travelling 'pub' — a waggon or cart touring the north selling grog to the blacks— and spent all his wages on tobacco and 'pinky.' 

Twelve months later the tribe returned to Chirripana, and again camped on the reserve. Chalk must have known about their coming weeks ahead, because by the time they arrived he was so miserable that he could not be relied upon to do his work properly. The tribe, as usual, got a supply of tucker from the house, and started to prepare for their feast. Towards evening an old black appeared, apparently from nowhere, and startled the miserable Chalk as he was unsaddling Candle. The old black stared hard at our hand and made several short, sharp remarks to him, after which he turned away abruptly and walked back to the camp. Chalk was in a state of terror, so I went along to find out what was troubling him. I liked this simple, open hearted aborigine, and I cursed the man who had trapped him to this life with such vile bait. I could get no answer to my questions, however, and the other blacks refused to enlighten me; but I guessed that the old black was the witch doctor, and that Chalky having been initiated, had no right to leave the tribe as he had done. Our other hands bore no initiation marks. 

The following morning the tribe departed, and we soon realised that Chalk was now apparently useless. Fear was written on all his features. He trembled whenever we attempted to speak to him. There was nothing to be done but to let him hang around till the feeling of fear wore off. He did not do so, however, and Chalk became more miserable every day. One day one of the other black hands told us that the bone had been pointed at him. We tried hard to get further information, but they did not know, and Chalk refused to speak. Finally he left. 'Me go walkabout,' were his last words to me. It was with a feeling of sadness that I watched that pathetic black lad, a mere shadow of his former self, as he walked off towards the north with a lifeless stride. He was doomed. Judgment had been delivered on the deserter, and he had to pay the tribal penalty. He probably reached his tribe in time to die. He was not with them when they paid us another visit the following year. That incident was one of the saddest in my life. Drink and tobacco are the deadly lures that have, in conjunction with disease, removed, in the short space of half a century, most of the aborigines of the north and interior.— 'Campfire Comrade.'

Drinking With A Dead Man

While bringing down a mob of wethers for the Adelaide market from the far north on one occasion, we stopped at a wayside 'pub' for a drink, and to hear the latest gossip, as most drovers do. The establishment was run by an Irishwoman, who was known to all the drovers in the north as a 'hard case.'  

The day in question was hot and dusty, and we lined up at the bar and called for our drinks. When she had served us, I threw the money for them on the bar counter, but she pushed it back and said, "The fellow over there is paying for the drinks." 

I looked over to where she pointed and saw a man sitting motionless on a form. We all had five or six drinks each, and then I asked her who the man was, and why he was so generous with his money. She told me that he had come down from a station for his annual spree, but had died that morning before his cheque had been all spent, and that that was her way of cutting his cheque out before informing the police of his death, which she did next day.

— C. Ellendon. Borrika.

Native Animals As Pets

Kangaroos and possums if caught young soon grow tame and are common pets in the country. Wallabies, on the other hand, are nervous creatures and seldom lose their fear of man. 

A friend of mine in Western Australia had three pet kangaroos, which were so tame that when allowed to roam at will they seldom went more than a few hundred yards from his homestead. His dogs took little notice of them, although most week-ends the dogs were taken out kangarooing.  However, when the mating season started the pets gradually drifted farther and farther away from the homestead. 

One day my friend was walking home when he was surprised to see the 'roos in a paddock of early crop belonging to his neighbor. On arriving home he called his dogs, thinking that he might as well catch the kangaroos before someone else did, as they were certainly becoming a nuisance. 

The dogs could not be encouraged to chase them, knowing full well that the animals were tame. Baffled, my friend returned home, and later shot his former pets. 

A pet dingo belonging to the same man also met a similar fate. As a pup the wild dog was no trouble and enjoyed romping with the other dogs, but when more matured he developed a taste for chicken and so came to an untimely end.— D.C.W.

Bullocks Versus Horses

'The Chronicle's' recent reference to the late Malcolm Cameron (widely known as 'king of the bullock drivers') recalls an occasion on which the veteran proved the superiority of bullocks over horses for pulling in bog. 

The South-Eastern drainage works were then under construction near Robe. I was given the job of carting a small railway engine, weighing approximately ten tons, from the drain at Beachport to where the work was being carried on near Robe. 

To avoid making a long detour, it was necessary to haul this engine about four miles across the soft pipeclay of Lake Hawdon. At the time there was two or three feet of water over the greater part of the pipeclay. I anticipated difficulties over this stretch, and doubtless would have found them but for Malcolm Cameron coming to my assistance.

Alongside of my team of 14 horses he hooked 16 bullocks. Knowing that the waggon on which the engine was loaded would sink to the axles as soon as it got into the mud, he lashed planks beneath the undercarriage so that they were just below the level of the axles. 

Before we had progressed a hundred yards into the lake the waggon was down to the under carriage and apparently hopelessly stuck. The overseer of the works jumped to the same conclusion as the rest of us. After watching the bullocks and horses floundering in the mud without moving the waggon a foot he turned to the driver and remarked, 'You're bogged, Malcolm.' 

Malcolm Cameron eyed the waggon unconcernedly before making his reply. 'No,' he said. 'I've often been stopped; but I've never been bogged.' 

He then proceeded to strip to the waist. It could easily be seen that the bullocks knew what was coming, and when he again took up the whip they redoubled their efforts in a way that was truly astounding. The horses plunged into their task and gave of their best, but it was the slow, steady pull of the bullocks that really told. Slowly the waggon and its ten-ton load moved forward. 

For the full four miles across the lake the waggon slid along on the planks lashed to the undercarriage, while the driver waded backwards and forwards along his team, cracking and plying his whip, and urging his bullocks forward with the picturesque language so typical of bullockies of the old brigade. 

It is open to doubt whether a more outstanding feat has been accomplished by any teamster in South Australia. Those who knew Malcolm Cameron best have often said that he knew almost to the pound what his bullocks could shift, and he never set them to a task that they were not capable of. — G.N.

'Risky' Work

The aborigines have always been quick to acquire the vices of the white man, such as drinking, gambling, and stealing. They, however, usually carry their liquor very badly, and get fighting mad on the same quantity of spirits that would normally only make a white man merry. Hence 'The Blackfellows Act.' 

Some years ago, however, it was not so hard for them to obtain drink. One of these thirsty blacks, who lived in a small town in western Australia, was once offered a job of topping a tree whose branches overhung an hotel. The pay was to take the form of a bottle of whisky. 

Treacle, as the black was called, turned up to do the job with his axe on his shoulder, and feeling very important. He insisted that he must be paid before he started work; but it took a deal of arguing to make the publican produce a bottle of the cheapest. Finally Treacle received his bottle, howbeit somewhat watered down. After taking a swig, he disappeared in the bush and did not return till his liquor was safely concealed. 

He then climbed the tree as few but natives can climb. The chips flew, and a few idlers gathered to watch and give advice. Work went on apace, and soon two men were ready to pull on the rope to keep the tree from falling on the hotel roof. 

They need not have excited themselves, for Treacle threw down his axe and climbed to the ground. 'Very risky work, boss,' he explained. 'Must give me 'nother bottle whisky before me finish job.' 

The proprietor was in a very awkward position, as any gust of wind might bring the top of the tree down on his roof. None of the onlookers were prepared to climb the tree and finish the job, so in the end another bottle of the same brand was given to the nigger and the work finished. — D.C.W., Norton's Summit.