26 December 1935

LEARNING THE CODE OF THE OUTBACK

How One Englishman Taught Another

To practically every outback station at some time or another an odd English immigrant has found his way, and has had to put up with being called a 'pommy,' receiving also the usual rough treatment that accompanies the breaking-in of every new chum. If the immigrants are young lads little notice is taken of them. Cheek, of course is given them, and the hardest and dirtiest jobs are left to them; but in next to no time the lads are quite at home. The older hands soon take a liking to the little chaps. When the Englishmen are more of their own age, however, some of the tougher characters of the outback sometimes overdo the rough, stuff, and a brawl often ensues. The idea is to see if the pommy is a man or not. Once the pommy becomes accustomed to the ways of the outback and learns the value of discretion, he takes a liking to the country and the characters that make it what it is.

On Chirripana we had Charlie Stewart, a young Englishman, working for Blotto, the cook. Chef and waiter was how Charlie described his job. In company, Blotto meted out a dog's treatment to his assistant, complaining bitterly that it was an outrage and an insult for a boss to give a good cook a blanky pommy as an assistant. Naturally one would have thought that Charlie was the most useless creature on earth, and that the cook hated the lad. But this was not a fact. Underneath all his apparent unkindness the opposite was the case, and in actual fact Blotto was very fond of the boy. When they were on their own these two were the world's best cobbers, and at no time would the cook have stood any one molesting the little pommy, or even being nasty towards him.

On the average everyone got on well with Blotto, though, of course, at shearing time occasionally some of the tougher shearers passed unpleasant remarks about his cooking, and more than one had learnt to his discomfort that the cook was an expert with his fists. During shearing additional hands were required, and these were often sent up from Adelaide by the woolbrokers' agents, who periodically travelled the country. On this occasion we required four additional hands for mustering and yard work, and they duly arrived on the mail truck.

Two of them had worked at Chirripana previously, and we knew them well. The other two were strangers. One of them proved to be an old-timer from over the border. The other stranger was Darcy Wilson, and the moment he spoke someone exclaimed, 'Blooming pommy.' Wilson scowled and no more was said. He was a remarkably well-built man, and an excellent horseman, as we later discovered. His work was the same as ours, and in pairs we rode put to the dead parts of the run to bring in the far mobs for the early shearing, so that they did not have to wait too long in the yards.

Wilson and I were on the run to the back sections, and I had plenty of time to sum him up. He struck me as being a decent sort, but one who could be easily roused. He was well spoken, and I learnt that he was new to the game, having been on a station only a few weeks before being sent up to us. It rankled him to be called a pommy, and he could not make it out why some of the hands should seem so fond of continually rubbing it in. I told him that once be became used to the work and the fellows and their ways he would soon become one of them and find them quite a decent lot. I pointed out, however, that if they noticed that calling him a pommy annoyed him, they would continue doing so just to see how cross he would get. 'If they get me wild they'll feel sorry for it,' was his reply.

Late the following day we neared the station, and put our sheep into a small paddock for the night. The shearers had arrived and would be starting in the morning. We all trooped off to the big shed for tea, where Blotto was in his glory, and Charlie as busy as ever. We were all nicely settled down for the evening meal when Blotto strolled in to see how things were going. 'Hullo Blotto!' A couple of the shearers knew the old chap well and greetings were exchanged. I introduced Wilson, and Blotto's greeting was, 'A pommy, eh?' 'Not so much of the pommy. My name is Wilson,' cut in the new hand. 'Pommy to me, any old time,' retorted Blotto. An angry reply rose to Wilson's lips, but I dug him in the ribs and he suppressed it. 'I was forgetting,' he murmured, and turned to his meal.

After tea the men sat round the table yarning and smoking. Some even played an early game of cards while I was up at the house for the next day's orders. During the washing up process in the kitchen adjoining the shed Blotto was giving Charlie 'beans,' to put it mildly. Probably thirst was troubling the cook, who had a weakness for beer. Through the open door could be heard volumes of abuse addressed to the pommy. Charlie was well used to it, knowing that it was more letting off steam than insult; but Wilson heard it all and knew not the state of affairs ruling in the kitchen.

Just as Blotto was going his hardest Wilson jumped from his seat and ran to the kitchen door. 'You're a low down swine,' he roared, 'to insult a lad like that. I'll knock your head off if you don't stop. I'm an Englishman.' 'You're a pommy,' retorted Blotto. 'And mind your own business. I'm boss of this kitchen.'

'Well, come out here and we'll soon see who is best man in the shed,' challenged Wilson. Blotto was in the shed in an instant, and the table disappeared from the centre almost immediately. The men leaned against the walls, and the atmosphere was tense with anticipation of a hard fight. At this stage I arrived and took a spectator's interest in the affair. The two men shaped up and were soon exchanging blows. Wilson was an expert, as was seen at a glance, but Blotto was as tough as a log and had a punch that years of dough punching had kept in fine trim. There was no time off in this battle, and the blows were hard and fierce. Wilson danced and dodged around, sending in stinging blows at Blotto's face and body, but the cook took no heed of them. Although he took severe punishment he kept at his adversary and hit out hard at every opportunity. Gradually the heavy punches began to tell on Wilson, and the cook ultimately drove him into a corner and rained punches at him that broke through his guard and knocked him out.

Blotto then calmly left the shed and resumed his work in the kitchen. Wilson soon recovered from the effects of the blows and left the shed in a very disgruntled frame of mind. I mentioned the matter to the boss, and next morning Wilson was given work that kept him away from the sheds for a few days.

Work continued smoothly until one day the engine driving the machine broke down, causing us several days' delay while a new part was being sent up from Adelaide. With a temporary cessation of work on the station, all hands were again camped at the sheds, and Wilson was among them. It so happened that as soon as work was suspended one of the shearers had caught his horse and had ridden over to a travelling grogshop that supplied the blacks and outback folk with liquor. On his return he had shared his drink with Blotto, with the result that the latter was in a very unsteady condition.

As we all took our places in the shed that evening it was evident that Charlie had the bulk of the work on his hands, while Blotto reeled about and cursed him with his usual ferocity. The same thing happened again. Blotto made a nuisance of himself, and Wilson was not in the best of humor to put up with any ribald jokes at his expense. We knew Blotto better than to take any notice of him when in that condition, but it stung Wilson to hear a drunk passing disparaging remarks about pommies in front of the mob. There was no doubt that the cook exceeded the limit and roused Wilson to retaliation.

Being drunk, Blotto was no match for the sober active Englishman, and things looked black for the befuddled cook. 'You take back all those dirty re marks or else I'll thrash you until you do. Drunken, pig that you are,' said Wilson, rising from his seat. A volume of bad language was all that he got in reply from Blotto, who was rolling up his sleeves and adopting a pugilistic attitude. Wilson jumped at the opportunity of revenge, with the sneers of Blotto burning in his ears.

Just as we expected the fight to begin, a small figure from the kitchen pushed its way in between the two men. It was Charlie. 'Look here, Wilson,' he said, 'you're not going to touch Blotto tonight. Up north you've got to learn to take a beating and you've got to learn that it's not sporting to hit a drunk. So chuck it. Blotto's all right. He's my cobber, and he doesn't mean to be nasty, and in the morning you won't know him.'

For a few seconds Wilson stood there undecided, while Blotto seemed too dumbfounded to speak. The dimin tive cook's assistant looked Wilson straight in the face and won. Wilson dropped his hands. 'I guess, you're right, Charlie,' he said. 'I think I'll see to my horse.' As he turned to walk to the door he received the surprise of his life. No longer were the fellows favoring him with inhospitable glances. Instead, as he realised immediately, he had done the right thing; the same as they would probably have done under similar circumstances, and the mob knew that he was prepared to accept the ways of the outback and be one of them.

Next day a sober Blotto rolled in to the dinner table and up to Wilson's place. 'Give us your fist, Wilson, old chap,' he remarked sincerely. 'It's a grand thing to shake the hand of a better man than yourself.' With an understanding smile Wilson returned the warm grip, remarking, 'I think Charlie is the best man of all.' 'That pommy's the most useless so and-so I've ever worked with,' replied Blotto good-humoredly, as he returned to his duties in the kitchen.

Through the timely interference of Charlie a new era of understanding was given to Darcy Wilson's experiences in the outback, and he ultimately became a well-known character, typical of the country that makes men.— 'Memorabilia.'

The Message In The Bottle

While preparations were being made in England for the Great Exhibition of 1851, shiploads of emigrants were setting out for the new Eldorado in Australia, although few of them made the fortunes they anticipated at the goldfields. Among other vessels which set out with immigrants was the barque Harpley, bound for Port Adelaide and thence to Melbourne. [1849] Needless to say, few of the passengers had any intention of settling in South Australia, which had no goldfields at the time.

As the ship beat down the Channel, a young fellow with a perverted sense of humor found an empty bottle, which he dropped overboard with a message in it, without giving any thought as to what effect such a message might have on the finder. The bottle was washed ashore, and caused serious concern to the authorities when they learned that the Harpley had collided with a derelict and sunk in the Channel. For days men-o'-war beat up and down the Channel, and as far as the coast of Ireland, in a vain search for survivors, who were reported to be adrift on rafts, according to the message in the bottle. Eventually the search was abandoned, and relatives of the passengers were notified by the owners of the Harpley of the loss of the ship.

Ignorant of the whole affair, the immigrants disembarked for a few days in Adelaide before proceeding to Melbourne, and a considerable number, who had set out with very little ready money, went to collect drafts and remittances which should have been waiting for them in Adelaide. But not a penny could they collect, as their relatives had failed to send any money when they heard the news of the loss of the barque, five months before. Practically the whole of the passengers were left stranded, and some of them secured no money from home for periods of up to eleven months after their arrival.

Under the circumstances, the reactions of the various passengers were totally different. Four young men decided to tramp overland to Bendigo, but apparently were unable to complete the journey, as other passengers failed to meet them there, after having made their way up from Port Philip a few weeks later. Another man decided to abandon all thoughts of the mines, and he eventually drifted to Wingham (N.S.W.), where he became an unregistered medical practitioner and won great respect in the Manning district as 'Dr.' William Allen,' one of the best known pioneers in Northern New South Wales. The majority of the 'drowned' people from the Harpley settled in South Australia, providing that colony with between 50 and 60 surprised and unexpected citizens, most of whom settled permanently as the 'gold-fever' wore off them. Some of their descendants are still to be found near Mount Barker— 'Alpha.'

Real Life Stories Of South Australia (1935, December 26). Chronicle (Adelaide, SA : 1895 - 1954), p. 12. http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article92331163