31 January 1935

BETTER MAN THAN THE BOSS

How A White Man Repaid The Debt He Owed To A Halfcaste

It is doubtful whether any living creature has a more to be pitied existence than the Australian aboriginal half-caste, despised as he usually is both by his father's and his mother's people. Such was the unfortunate lot of Charlie, the boy about the place, on a station we will call the 'ranch.'

The mother of this lad was a member of a tribe that roamed the Ranch on odd occasions, hunting kangaroos and trapping wild dogs. When little Charlie arrived and was found not true to type, he was abandoned on the sheep track, where old Lupe, the shepherd, found him and nursed him through his baby days. Lupe was a queer character, of whom little was known. A fairly tall half-bred Spaniard, erect, dark-eyed, grey haired, and old, he was a true shepherd, kind and gentle as a woman. He had drifted to the Ranch from the Western Australian goldfields. Perhaps it was the thought of his own hard childhood that prompted him to adopt this little half-caste and treat him kindly. For five years little Charlie lived and grew up with old Lupe, learning to ride, and handle sheep while still quite a toddler. The little chap was fated never to have the opportunity of repaying his debt of gratitude to his foster parent. Lupe died suddenly in the autumn of 1914, and little Charlie was taken down to the Ranch. 

It was a strange and terrifying world without his old friend, but the station folk treated him kindly, and very soon the little waif was almost one of the family. At the age of 12 or so fate dealt him its second blow. The Ranch changed hands, and into decidedly worse ones, as events proved. The new owners were very 'superior-minded' people, and in no time at all the old station hands had drifted away. The new ones who took their places were in keeping with the boss's nature, and life for Charlie soon became a misery. He was not sacked, because of his use fulness, but he was bullied and worried continually. 

Without friends he found his lot hard to endure, but it became much worse when the boss's son, Max, came home from college. This lad of 17 turned out to be a perfect hooligan after a few weeks' association with the rough station hands. Charlie was always referred to by him as the mongrel, crossbred, half-caste, &c. These stinging taunts hurt the lad terribly, but he had to endure them all. He was an outcast among both white and black peoples. Death would be his lot should he venture to join up with a tribe, as he had been sentenced when born. For several years this treatment went on, and Charlie endured it with his characteristic patience. He did his work and that of others besides. He knew no rest, and was never paid. Even tobacco was rationed him very sparingly. 

It happened that one Sunday afternoon Max had to inspect the windmill and troughs at a bore in one of the most distant paddocks. As he had a round trip of nearly 40 miles to do, he took one of the station buckboards. Calling out for Charlie in his usual bullying manner, he told the lad to seat himself on the back, and drove off. Poor Charlie had the hot sun and dust tormenting him while his youthful employer sat alone in the front, shaded by the cabin and enjoying the drive. 

They arrived at the bore, and Max immediately heard the windmill screeching. A quick glance at the works revealed the trouble. The oil filler plug had worked loose and all the oil had leaked out on to the mill plat form. Charlie was no hand with spanners, so it fell to Max to remedy the trouble. With one hand full of the necessary tools, Max agilely ran up the steps of the mill tower. When about half way up his foot slipped off the oil-splashed steps and he fell to the ground with a sickening crash. Fortunately he saved his neck by falling on his feet, but he uttered a terrible scream as his legs smashed beneath him. He lay on the ground, moaning with the pain. 

Charlie hardly knew what to do. For some moments he stood gazing at the victim in horror-stricken silence. Gradually reason came to him. and he realised that he alone could save the injured lad's life. It was nearly 20 miles to the station, but help was nearer at hand at the camp of Patterson, the boundary rider on the corner fence, four miles away. Driving the buckboard was quite beyond Charlie's limited powers Evening was drawing nigh, and he suddenly remembered that Patterson would be down at the station homestead for tea, having had orders to draft half his sheep to the homestead paddock. There was no telling when the boundary rider would return to his camp. 

The nights are bitterly cold in the dry outback, and Max had received internal injuries in addition to those to his legs. Charlie knew that shelter was absolutely essential. The buck board was useless for that purpose in the cold night, as both were scantily attired. They were without rugs and a cold wind was coming up. 

There was only one thing that could be done, and the half-caste did it. Picking up the almost senseless lad in his arms as gently as possible, he started to carry him across country to the boundary rider's hut. No one knows how long it took to travel those four miles that night, but the fact remains that it was done. One can well imagine the strength and endurance it must have taken, for Max was a hefty fellow; in addition the halfcaste exercised great care in carrying his burden. In spite of being almost exhausted when he arrived, he immediately placed the injured lad on Patterson's bed and made him comfortable. Next he made a cup of strong coffee and revived the patient. 

The first words spoken were, 'You carried me here, Charlie?' 'Yes, Boss,' was the weary reply . 'You are a good lad to do it. I'm darn sorry I've treated you so rottenly.' 'Me not mind, Boss. Me only a plurry half-caste mongrel.' 'Charlie.' For what you've done tonight, I'll promise you I'll never call you that again.' 

'And I'll see that you stick to that promise,' a hard voice from the door way broke in. It was Patterson, who had returned from the homestead. The boundary rider, on learning what had happened, immediately rode his weary horse to the bore, and returned with the buckboard. The patient and halfcaste were both taken on board, and in the dead of night they drove as quickly as possible to the homestead. That same night Max was taken to a hospital, which was reached at noon next day. The skill of a surgeon saved his life, and his badly smashed legs were made to knit and grow straight again. 

Four months later Max returned to the ranch in the best of health, his stay in hospital and a holiday having worked wonders. When Max arrived, shearing was in full swing. All the station hands were busy at the sheds. Max went along to inspect the work and entered the shearing board. In dodging a shorn sheep, he slipped on the greasy floor, and fell on the tarpot, causing his features and clothes to be smothered in tar and pieces of wool. Enraged at the roar of laughter that greeted his undignified appearance, he grasped the broom and hit the bending tarboy across the back. It happened to be Charlie. 'That'll teach you to leave the tarpot lying around, you damned half caste,' he roared. 'And that'll teach you to speak more civilly to a better man than yourself,' said Patterson, who was standing behind him, as he smashed his big fist into Max's face. Both Patterson and Charlie were dismissed on the spot, but it was the beginning of a new life for the halfcaste. He had found a true friend. — 'Memorabilia,' Ngapale.

Miraculous Escape 

From time to time accidents are reported from the South-East of persons falling into one of the many caves formed in the limestone but one of the most remarkable happenings in this category was the case of Joseph Cossons nearly 50 years ago. 

He was employed on a farm in the Hundred of Caroline, and late one afternoon left his home to take a short cut through the ferns, and did not return. His wife waited anxiously for him, and at 10 o'clock the next morning went across to Mr. W. Matheson's for assistance. The sons of Mr. Pick were also communicated with, and they joined in the search, too. Mrs. Matheson rode to Cosson's hut and started searching on her own account in the direction he was said to have gone. 

She followed his tracks to the ferns, but there she lost them, and decided to continue searching in the direction he should have taken. After going a short distance, she heard a whistle apparently coming from a long way away, and assumed that it was one of the searchers; but answered it and rode towards it. 

She had not gone far when she heard a groan almost beneath her, and looking down, saw a hole in the ground, almost covered by ferns, not more than two feet in diameter. She spoke to Cossons at the bottom of it, and returned to his hut to get a pair of cart reins. Finding that these were not long enough to reach Cossons, she called to Matheson and the two Picks, who brought a well-rope from nearby. By making a noose in this, they were able to lower it to Cossons through the narrow opening. The entrapped man was able to place this under his arms, and was hauled to safety. So narrow was the hole in parts, that hard pulling was necessary to drag Cossons to the surface. 

Cossons was little the worse for his experience, but an investigation of the opening revealed what might have happened. Cossons had fallen through the hole when walking through the ferns, but after dropping 10 feet had been able to stop himself by pressing his knees against the sides of the hole. It was so narrow that he could not bring his arms to his sides, and with them stretched over his head, he remained in this position for seven or eight hours. He heard his wife cooeeing, but could not make himself heard. 

He became exhausted and fell a further 18 feet to a ledge of rock, but the cavity was still only the width of his body. In this predicament he stayed until he was rescued at 2 o'clock the next day, more than 20 hours after he had fallen down the shaft. The ledge on which he rested was found to be the edge of a large cave of great depth, and Cossons might easily have gone through this opening instead of resting on the ledge. The hole was in a hollow, among hills, in a very out of the way place, and a contemporary stated that it was 'next to a miracle' that Cossons was ever found at all.— H.

[Joseph Cossons Birth 5.8.1852 GLS ENG. Death 28.4.1904. Arr SA 1856 AURORA. (BISA)]

Valuable Shirts 

How little the average man, or woman either, for that matter, knows of the value of clothes, is shown by the following incident, which happened a few years ago in a well-known northern town, the principal actor being a returned soldier known to all his friends as 'Dutchie.' 

One Friday afternoon 'Dutchie' and his mate were in the town making their weekly purchases. Their main business having been concluded, they decided on a drink. On the way to the hotel, 'Dutchie's' mate went into a store and bought a working shirt, which he carried wrapped up under his arm. 

On nearing the hotel he for some reason or other, handed the parcel to 'Dutchie,' who still had it when they entered the bar. 

Once inside, greetings were showered on the newcomers, and someone, for want of something better to say, asked, 'What have you got in the parcel, 'Dutchie?'' 

Without a moment's hesitation the latter replied, 'Oh, that's something the like of which you've never seen before, and unrolled the shirt. 'That,' he said, 'was brought to Australia at very great risk. When we came home from Egypt I managed, not very easily, to smuggle a few home with me. They were valued very highly over there, for you can see what wonderful stuff they're made of— far superior to anything procurable in Australia at the present time. I brought this one in to show a chap in the town.' 

Everyone in the bar crowded around to examine the shirt. At last some one said, 'What about selling the shirt, 'Dutchie.' I could do with one like that.' 'Dutchie,' however, did not seem too keen to sell, but after a great deal of persuasion he agreed to part with it, and named a price about double that paid by his mate at the store. 

The buyer showed his purchase to some of the womenfolk of the hotel, who loudly praised the quality of the material. At this, several other men wanted to know from 'Dutchie' whether he had any others he would care to sell. He replied, 'Well, I have a few more around in the sulky, and as you are all friends of mine, I'll let you have one each.' 

He then left the hotel, telling them to wait until he returned. He went around to the shop and bought several of the shirts returning with them and disposing of them at a large profit. After having had his drink he left the bar. 

A newcomer entered, and, of course, everyone showed him what wonderful purchases they had made. He examined the shirts and said, 'Why, those shirts are in stock at So and So's store. I've just bought one myself.' 

One can imagine the thoughts and expressions of the men when they found out how they had been tricked by a man whom they had known for years, some of them all their lives. — 'Argus.'