CHAPTER XIII
SUPERIOR FATTENING COUNTRY
Blackfellows' Creek, or "Harton Hills," as the proprietor caused it to be designated when it commenced to acquire fame and reputation, was a striking example of the well-known faith held by experienced pastoralists, that a good run will manage itself, and make lots of money for its owner, whereas no amount of management will cause much difference in the profits or losses of a bad run.
Blackfellows' Creek was proverbially managed "anyhow." There was a large herd of cattle upon it, which certainly enjoyed about the smallest amount of supervision of any cattle in the world, not being Red River bisons, Chillingham wild cattle, or the Bos primigenius. Twice a year they were mustered to brand; a little oftener, perhaps, to get out the fat cattle. Sometimes there was a stock-rider, often none at all for months. The owner enjoyed the inestimable advantage of having been born north of the Tweed, a fact which indisposed him to employ more labour than was absolutely necessary. It also prevented him from wasting his ready money on "improvements." The yards were generally referred to as a proof of how very little expenditure was really necessary on a cattle station.
"I wish I'd been a Scotchman, Rolf," said Fred Burchett to me once, in a contemplative mood. "I should have had a good run and 20,000 sheep by this time." "True—most true, friend of my soul; the same here—and we should not only have had them,—the acquisition is not so difficult,—but have kept them. That's where one division of the empire differs so much from the other." Now, the owner of Blackfellows' Creek, partly by reason of his abnormal girth and a sort of Athelstane-the-Unready kind of nature, never did anything. Yet he prospered exceedingly, and waxed more and more wealthy and rotund. All the stock-riders in the district came cheerfully to his muster, knowing that they would be treated with a certain easy-going liberality, and, moreover, be sure to find quantities of unbranded calves and strayed stock, all in the best possible condition, and never driven off the run or impounded from the richly-abounding and carelessly-ordered pastures of Blackfellows' Creek. I myself secured at a muster, and sold there and then, a whole lot of fat bullocks to Mooney, the cattle-dealer, who was lifting a draft at the time. They were a portion of my Devil's River store lot, which had, with correct taste and calculation, taken up their abode at Blackfellows' Creek on the first winter of their arrival. They had not my station brand, but their own hieroglyph was sufficient to protect them in those Arcadian times. I received Mr. Mooney's perfectly negotiable cheque for a round sum. They had fattened up wonderfully,—great, raw-boned, old-fashioned Sydney-siders,—and looked like elephants. The only remark the owner of the run made on the transaction was, "As they had done so well, it was a pity that more of them hadn't come at the same time."
It was indeed a lovely bit of country, speaking from a grazing standpoint. There was plenty of water in the Blackfellows' and other unpretending channels to provide for the stock in all seasons without obtrusive parade. The run itself consisted principally of open well-grassed forest land, with a large proportion of "stony rises," and several marshes, very useful in the summer. Not an acre of waste or indifferent land was there upon it. Nobody knew where the boundaries were, there being no natural features of any kind, and the current belief was that it was much larger than was generally supposed. It did not seem to have any of the ordinary drawbacks to which other squattages were exposed. In spite of its ill-omened name, the blacks had never been "bad" there. If they had killed a few cattle no one would have minded, and I have no doubt they would have discontinued the practice voluntarily.
As a matter of course, the cattle were always "rolling fat." There was never the least trouble of selling a draft to be taken from the camp. The dealers gave the highest price, and bid against one another. Even the two-year-old steers were often taken, so "furnished" and "topped up" were they. How they were bred could never be ascertained, and was popularly supposed to be wholly unknown to any white man of the period. Bulls were seldom bought. Not the smallest trouble was taken about their breeding. No money was spent, except upon the stud, in which were some noble Clydesdales—on one of them, by the way, I once saw the proprietor, and very worthily mounted he was. The animal in question was a son of old Farmer's Favourite, a gigantic gray, no doubt having some blood on the side of the dam, and seventeen hands in height. He was active and well paced, and carried his nineteen stone most creditably.
There were sheep on the run as well as cattle. From the richness of the soil and herbage they suffered a good deal with foot-rot, which they were permitted to cure by nature's own healing art. But they paid pretty well, too, growing a heavy fleece, and gradually increasing in numbers—shepherds, ailments, and occasional free selection by dingoes notwithstanding.
Mr. Carmichael either bought the place very early or "took it up"—the latter most likely. Such a property was, presumably, not often in the market; but the proprietor told me that he had once placed it under offer, at what he doubtless considered a very fancy price, to Mr. Jack Buchanan, a handsome, spirited young Scot, who bought one of the Messrs. Boldens' runs—the Lake—in 1844. The extreme fancy price being £3 per head for the cattle and 10s. all round for the sheep, the run about a quarter stocked!
After the gold "broke out," the drafts of fat cattle from Harton Hills began to tell up in such figures on the right side of his banking account that the owner saw the necessity for acquiring the fee-simple. This was effected, like everything else there, without much trouble. A good house was built, fencing was put up. Thousands of acres were purchased, and the whole run pretty well "secured," out of its own profits solely, by the time the invasion of the free-selecting Goths and Vandals under Gavan Duffy's Act took place. Mr. Carmichael ultimately retired, and betook himself to a town life. But, however his idyll ended, no better example than Blackfellows' Creek ever demonstrated the soundness of the old squatting belief before alluded to, that the run is everything—stock, improvements, management, capital, etc., being all secondary considerations.
It has been mentioned in the early portions of these reminiscences that the Mount Rouse station, originally taken up by Mr. John Cox, had been resumed by the Government of the day, represented by His Honour the Superintendent, and devoted to the use and benefit of the aborigines of the district. Some compunction seems to have been felt by Mr. La Trobe, a humane and highly-cultured person, at the rapid decrease and deterioration of the native race. Whether he originated the idea of an aboriginal protectorate, with a staff of officials known as "Black Protectors," I cannot state with precision. A certain missionary named Robinson had the credit of inducing the remnant of the wild men and women of Tasmania to surrender to the clemency of the Government. They were then, with a somewhat doubtful generosity, presented with an island, and maintained thereon at the charges of the State. It does not appear that they lacked henceforth any material comfort. But the fierce savages who had long harassed the outlying settlers, and who possessed considerably more "bulldog" in the way of courage than their continental congeners, refused to thrive or multiply when "cabined, cribbed, confined," even though they had alternation of landscape in their island home, and but the restless sea for their encircling boundary. They pined away slowly; but a few years since the last female of the race died. The monotonous comfort told on health and spirits. It was wholly alien to the constitution of the wild hunters and warriors who had been wont to traverse pathless woods, to fish in the depths of forest streams, to chase the game of their native land through the lone untrampled mead, or the hoar primeval forests which lay around the snow-crested mountain range.
The missionary diplomatist displayed an amount of nerve and astuteness which would have led to promotion in other departments. He crossed the straits to Victoria, and, if I mistake not, held council with Mr. La Trobe. Whether propter hoc or only post hoc, an aboriginal protectorate was established, and Mr. Cox had the honour of giving up a property worth now say about £ 100,000 for the presumed advantage of the black brother.
It was no trifling loss. Even in those days the "Mount Rouse Stones" was an expression which made the mouth of a cattleman to water. It was the richest run in a rich fattening district. The conical hill, so named, was an extinct volcano, which towered over a wide extent of lava country and open lightly-timbered forest. The lava lands alternated with great marshes. Strayed and other cattle found there, when recovered, were always spoken of by the stock-riders as being "mud-fat." When once cattle were turned out there they never seemed to have any inclination to roam, being instinctively aware, doubtless, that they could never hope to find such shelter, such pasture, such luxurious lodging anywhere else.
I remember Charles Burchett remarking one day that it would be a fairly promising speculation to bring up a thousand head of store cattle and lose them at the foot of Mount Rouse; after a short, unsuccessful search, to depart, and return in the autumn, when they would be sure to be found all fat, and within a dozen miles of the hill. He reflected for a moment, and then added thoughtfully, "I think a popular man might do it."
However, there was no fighting with the powers that be in those days. There was no Parliament—no press of any great weight—no fierce democracy—no redress nearer than Sydney. It was "a far cry to Lochow." So Mr. Cox shifted his stock and servants out, and Dr. Watton moved in, took possession as Protector of Aborigines, and gathered to him the remnant of the former lords of the soil, with their wives and their little ones. The intention was humane; the act was one of mercy and justice towards the fast-fading children of the waste; but it never could be demonstrated to be more successful in results than the Tasmanian experiment.
There were several protectorate stations established about the same time, one notably near Ballarat, one, I think, on the Wimmera, and one on the Murray. Long after a Moravian Mission was organised for their behoof at Lake Boga, near Swan Hill. All came to naught. The blacks visited them from time to time, when the season was unpropitious, or for other reasons. They were fed and clothed. The younger ones were taught to read and write, and received religious instruction. But the whole thing doubtless appeared to them unendurably dull and slow, and like all savages, and a largish proportion of whites, being passionately averse to monotony, they deserted by degrees, and pursued a more congenial career as wanderers through wood and wold, or as servants and labourers at the neighbouring stations. There they could earn money, and, I fear me, proceeded to "knock down" the same by means of periodic alcoholic indulgence, "as nat'ral as a white man."
Meanwhile good old Dr. Watton, a genial, cultured English gentleman, lived a peaceful patriarchal life at Mount Rouse—not, I should imagine, vexing his soul unduly at the instability of the heathen. They were welcomed and kindly treated when they came, not particularly regretted when they chose to depart. All attempt at coercion would have been, of course, inexpedient and ludicrously ineffective. So matters at the "Reservation" wore on. The doctor's small herd of cattle, the descendants of a few milch cows needed for the family, were wonderful to behold by reason of their obesity, as they lay and lounged about the spring which trickled down a plough-furrow in front of the cottage.
The pastoralists never approved of the protectorate system. They accused certain of the protectors—not the gentlemen to whom I refer—of instructing the blacks that if whites shot them it would be considered murder, and the offenders hanged, but that if they speared the cattle or the stockmen occasionally, it was only, let us say, an error of judgment, for which they would not suffer death. This probably was an exaggeration, and some allowance must be made for the habitual antagonism of pioneers to "Injuns" of any sort or kind.
If these establishments did no particular good, they did no harm. They afforded shelter to the aged and infirm of both sexes, and they attempted, in all good faith, to teach the young the great truths of the Christian's hope in life and death. Still, I know but of one instance where any permanent educational good resulted to the pure race. Yet I took much interest in the question, and remember watching closely the career of a highly intelligent half-caste, who had been brought up by Mr. Donald M'Leod at Moruya. He was a tall, well-made man, intelligent, "reliable," and shrewd. He married a respectable emigrant girl. They had two children, and a situation under Cobb and Co. At this stage of ethnological interest a snake bit him. The poor fellow died, and I lost the opportunity of watching the development of the mixed blood.
After the Mount Rouse aboriginal station had been devoted to this philanthropical purpose for a certain number of years, it became gradually apparent to the official mind, from the well-nigh complete disappearance of aboriginals, that its utility had ceased. It was accordingly disestablished. One would have thought that the obviously fair thing would have been to have handed back the right of run to the former owner. This was before any gospel of free selection had been preached, and while the "poor man" was still a harmless, contented unit of the body politic, ignorant of his wrongs, and unacquainted with the fatal flavour of vote by ballot. The license could have been granted afresh to Mr. Cox or his executors, and no one would have thought of protesting. But no! With a certain cheese-paring economy, of which Governments are often justly accused, it was decided to let the right of run by tender. Though assessments were high enough, no one in those days dreamed of offering more than £200 or £300 annually for the mere grass right of any run. Mount Rouse was hardly improved in any way. Every one was considerably astonished when it was proclaimed that the tender of the Messrs. Twomey had been accepted for £900 per annum! This was a rental for the waste lands of the Crown with a vengeance! It was thought that it never would pay the daring speculators. However, the event showed that the Messrs. Twomey had gauged the capabilities of the run accurately enough. They had a small station close by, and had made their calculations justly. They put sheep on, fenced, and presumably made money thereby, as they eventually purchased the greater portion of the freehold.