3 September 1936

CLOSE CALL FROM DEATH BY THIRST 

Flock Of Corellas Save Two Lives

Have you ever suffered the pangs of thirst? I have several times, but never so greatly as on one occasion in North-West Queensland. 

It was the merest fluke that a young Englishman (the toughest new chum I have ever encountered) and I happened on a soak that certainly saved our lives. The incident taught me never to take for granted the word of another that water existed in a doubtful locality. 

With the young Englishman I was horse hunting in country adjacent to the Burke River, then bone dry as the result of several months of drought. In a vast area that was practically waterless we had come on the tracks of horses I had every reason to believe were the ones I was after. These horse tracks heading in a certain direction seemed to verify the work of a stockman whom we had met that water existed at a hole I knew of. It was too late in the afternoon to follow on after the tracks, so we decided to camp and get an early start next morning. 

Although mid-summer, our horses would not suffer unduly from thirst that night, as we had watered them and filled our neck bags about four o'clock in the afternoon at an old well. With a pre-daylight start I reckoned on getting to the waterhole around about midday, and, of course, taking the stockman's word for granted that water still existed where I hoped to find fresh traces of the horses, we did not stint ourselves for water. 

When we rode off in the starlight next morning our water bags contained less than one pint each. I could have taken a short cut to the hole and saved our horses a few miles, but I thought that by following the pad on which I had seen the horse tracks, I might happen upon the animals returning from their drink. It was intensely hot, and long before we reached the hole both we and our horses were in need of a drink. In order to keep up the spirits of the young Englishman, I kept saying, 'Only another couple of miles now.' 

When we eventually arrived at the hole about midday, and found that it had been dry for days, the young Englishman aroused me from my stupor by saying, 'How far is it to the nearest pub?' 

I alone knew the seriousness of our position, and without beating about the bush I told him straight how matters stood. It was forty odd miles back to the well where water did exist for certain and about fifteen to the Burke river, where it was long odds against finding a soak before our horses turned it in. 

Most men would have decided on making back for the well, but I felt certain that the horses could not possibly make it. After a brief consultation I agreed with the young fellow that we would take the odds about finding water at the Burke. Horse tracks led that way, so it seemed on the face of it that water was there somewhere. 

Our horses and ourselves were in a sorry plight when at last we reached the sandy bed of the Burke. Not a sign of any horse tracks were to be seen about the banks or bed of the river, and I had grave doubts about our horses standing much more riding. 

There was no time to discuss matters, so off we headed up the river. I knew that our only chance of saving ourselves and our horses from an agonising death lay in happening on a soak. I did not know the locality too well, but I had often heard that during dry periods brumbies used to get water by pawing away the sand until water soaked through. I relied on finding one of these soaks where brumbies and marsupials got a drink. 

I don't remember much after about two o'clock. Both our horses were settled and we had to get off and lead them. The young Englishman's tongue was swollen, and although he must have been suffering untold torture, he never whimpered. It was only his bulldog courage that allowed him to stagger along behind me. 

How far we stumbled alone after dismounting I have not the faintest idea, but when I returned to normal again just before sundown we were both lying semi-naked beneath the shade of a tree, with myriads of ants swarming all over us. Of our horses there was no sign, but in a flash all came back to me, as I sat up and saw a muddy hole close by. I crawled over, flopped into the hole and gorged myself until I became sick. I aroused the young Englishman, and after he had had a long drink he told me as much, as he knew. 

It appears that the screeching of a flock of corellas had prompted me to lead the way out of the river bed, and shortly afterwards we and our horses had rushed headlong to the muddy water hole. When I asked about the horses the young Englishman told me that I had unsaddled and hobbled them. I did not remember doing this, but for proof the saddles were pointed out to me lying against a tree. 

That night and the next day we rested, drinking gallons of tea made with the muddy water and eating johnny-cakes made from flour that was more ants than anything else. 

Our horses had not gone far away to feed, and several times during the night they came to the mud hole to drink. It was a sick pair of horse-hunters that two days later arrived back to good water and decent food. 

I have had some close calls one way and other, but I regard that nightmare on the Burke River as the closest.— 'OVERLANDER' 

The Collinsfield Well 

This incident happened at Collinsfield, near Red Hill, some forty years ago; no doubt some of the older residents will remember it. 

Bullocks were employed for carting the wheat, and one morning when the bullockies went out to muster the team a bullock was found to be missing. One man made a tour of the paddock fence and discovered that the bullock had not broken out; every possible cover in which it could be hiding was examined without result, then somebody thought of the well. 

The bullock was there all right, jammed head down in the shaft, eighty feet from the surface, with a broken neck. The carcase of the beast was hidden under a tangled mass of timbering from the sides of the shaft, which the beast had dislodged during its struggles. 

Neither of the bullockies was willing to take the risk of going down the shaft, fearing that the sides might cave in now that the timbers were dislodged, but it was obvious that the carcase would ruin the water supply if left there. 

Working on the farm was an old Cornishman named John, and when nobody else volunteered for the job he stepped forward. 'Give me they rope,' he growled. 'I be goin' down.' 

The 'Cousin Jack' has a reputation tor courage of the obstinate, dogged type, and old John exhibited it that day when he was lowered down the well. Bundle after bundle of timber he sent up; clods of dirt and stones rained down on him whenever the timbers bumped the sides of the shaft, but he stuck to his task. 

When the way had been cleared he fastened bullock chains to the hind legs of the dead beast and the rest of the team hauled it up. 

Next day the owner of the farm secured the services of a couple of well sinkers and sent them out to re-timber the shaft. When they drove up to the well they found no sign of it save a large depression in the ground, the whole shaft had caved in. 

That shows what a risk the old Cornishman had taken. When he heard the news, he nodded. 'I thought she was goin' once or twice when I was down her,' he remarked. 'They dirt in her sides was awful loose.'— 'Mick O'Mulga.' 

Boys Too Cunning For Scotchman 

An old Scotch squatter for whom I used to work many years ago named Maclean was as canny as his race proverbially are. On one occasion we arranged to meet him at his place in the hills to do a week's mustering, and he entrusted us with the key, in case he was delayed. 

On arrival, we found a corrugated iron and concrete building on top of a steep bluff. Once inside, the question of boiling the billy arose, and I went to the tank. Although it seemed to be half-full, not a drop came out when I turned the tap on. I debated the possibility of opening up the top, which had only a small orifice to admit the downpipe, but dismissed the idea for fear of offending Maclean, and also because we had neither tin-cutters nor tin-openers in our gear. Eventually, I climbed down to the creek far below, and hauled water from there for two days. 

When old Maclean arrived, he was very amused at the lack of success that had greeted our efforts with the tap; and drew out his penknife with a wide grin. He worked out the cork he had hidden in the aperture of the tap, and chuckled at our discomfiture. 'We'd better go steady on it, all the same,' he said, 'We're likely to be here for two or three weeks, and she only holds a couple of hundred gallons.' 

As soon as the water showed signs of running short he arranged with two boys, sons of a selector, who lived a couple of miles off, to haul water up for us in kerosene tins, which were to be ready for counting and payment by dusk each evening. As soon as he had checked the water, old Maclean used to pour it info the tank through the down pipe and pay them.

'Can't make it out.' he used to say, as he tapped the tank, 'there ought to be more. Sure you coves are steady on the wash basin?' We were. Grimly he plugged up the tap again.  

It was not until the tank was practically empty that he woke up. The youngsters went on strike and refused to haul any more water at any price. Mac's suspicions were aroused, and he went over the surface of the tank with the persistence of a blacktracker. At last he crawled underneath it and made a discovery. The youngsters had bored a hole in the bottom with a nail, plugged it up carefully, and drawn off every afternoon the water they sold back at dusk, Mac obliging by tipping it back into the tank ready for it to be drawn off next day. 

'I've got a damned good mind to flog the hides off them,' he bellowed in his first flush of wrath, but later thought better of it. In years to come, both boys were working for the old chap and duffers were welcome to anything they could drive off his place, he boasted; but I've yet to hear of any of the iodine branders making much of a fortune that way.— 'Alpha.' 

The Wreck Of The Edith Haviland 

The South-East coast was the scene of many disastrous shipwrecks in the early days of the colony. Among those of which I have first-hand knowledge is the wreck of the Edith Haviland, which took place near where the Cape Banks lighthouse now stands. 

A friend and I rode thirty miles to it when we heard that she was ashore. She ran on a reef near Cape Banks, and after she had been aground for some time the cook— a negro— volunteered to swim ashore. Putting on a lifebuoy he jumped over board, and after a hard struggle through the rough seas he reached the shore, but was completely exhausted. 

He tried several times to crawl up the sand on his hands and knees, but the backwash dragged him back into the surf, and he was drowned practically on the beach and in sight of the crew. There was no one on the shore at the time to assist him. 

Some time after he left the vessel she broke up. The rest of the crew managed to get ashore on pieces of the wreckage, but the captain's wife and two children who were on the vessel were killed, either by falling rigging or by being knocked into the sea and drowned. 

The beach was strewn with wreckage and general cargo for miles. The vessel had a lot of flour on board, and some of this came ashore over 40 miles from where the wreck occurred. Although it was for days in the water it was not much damaged, the water only penetrating about half an inch through the bags. This flour was collected and sold afterwards, and was quite good.— 'Gumsucker.'

See also article 21 Jun 1934