This was the end of my first experience in the bush. We were all of us awfully tired when we got back, and slept like tops.
Port Darwin is by no means a bad place. For many years North Australia was a white-elephant country, but now it is a land of promise. It is a sort of colony within a colony, being attached to South Australia by the same sort of bonds that South Australia is attached to England. At present Port Darwin is the terminus of the cables from Europe, and the land lines are the Australian colonies. Before a great many years it hopes, by being the terminus of a transcontinental railway, to become a San Francisco or New York. When this is made, the journey to and from the colonies will be considerably shortened; six hundred miles of line now run northwards from Adelaide, and very shortly there will be 150 miles of line southwards from Port Darwin. This latter line will open up a number of valuable mining districts, where gold, copper and tin are already being worked. In addition to mining industries, North Australia offers a good field for the squatter and planter. The squatters, with herds of horned cattle, have already been successful. The planters have, however, thus far failed. When they had good land they wanted capital, and, where they had capital, they were unfortunate in their selection of land. On the coast there are the pearl shell fisheries.
By-and-bye we shall hear that Port Darwin has become as famous as the distinguished savant who gave to it its name. Port Darwin, Good luck! and good-bye.
QUEENSLAND.
In my last letter I told you about our experiences at Port Darwin. It took us exactly three days to get over those experiences. Those who didn’t sleep, sat on cane chairs gazing at the Gulf of Carpentaria, thinking of their past folly, and speculating when the next flying fish would rise. There is not much excitement in tropical seas. You seldom if ever see a ship, and birds, if there are any, are too languid to take exercise. All is dead save the movement of the waters, and the fluttering of flying fish. We had related all our stories, and it was too hot to invent new ones. After about two hours of silence in the afternoon of the second day, the lively Peter said he would bet a new hat that we could not find in Dod’s atlas, islands corresponding to all the days of the week. I forgot to tell you that one of Dod’s chief amusements was to mark out his route in a big atlas which he had brought with him. Peter’s proposal was accepted, and I am sorry to record the fact that I lost the hat. I am sure that I didn’t lose because the islands do not exist, but because Dod’s atlas was not big enough. It did not even mark the great Thursday Island, which we were approaching. If there had only been a detailed map of the north end of Australia, I think I should have won. Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday Islands exist near Thursday Island, and the only island about which I should have been doubtful, would have been a Sunday island. I don’t think the people who live near the land’s end of the Australian continent could harmonize with an island named after the seventh day. I wonder if Peter looked at the atlas before he made the bet?
Thursday Island is one out of a set of hilly islands forming outliers off the end of Cape York. From a balloon they ought to look like the commencement of a series of stepping stones, reaching from Australia towards New Guinea. If the series were ever complete, the greater part of it has been washed away, and all that remains is the southern end of the line. As we steamed in between these islands, we passed at the distance of about one hundred yards, a steamer coming out. The waving of handkerchiefs was immense. A lady passenger not only waved her handkerchief, but she fairly jumped with excitement, and beckoned to us as if she wanted us all to jump overboard, and swim after her. It was clear she recognised somebody, but, who that somebody was we never discovered. For the next week we used to address our skipper as ‘the sly dawg who flirted with the lady on the Greyhound.’ It has often astonished me how bold ladies become, and gentlemen also, when there is some sort of a barrier between them. When a train is leaving a platform, respectable ladies can sometimes hardly repress a smile at respectable gentlemen, but, while the train is standing at the station, both the ladies and the gentlemen are as solemn as petrifactions.
The handful of people at Thursday Island had, like the inhabitants of all the other ports on the Australian coast, made preparations against sudden invasion. Practice was going on at a rifle butt, the lights which guide the ships had been extinguished for many nights, and the hulks holding coals and other stores by withdrawing certain plugs could at a moment’s notice be scuttled. One old lady fearing that on the approach of the Russians, she might have to take refuge in the bush, kept her pockets filled with fishing lines and hooks. At least she would have the means of supplying the camp with fish.
On my second visit to Thursday Island, which was in company with Captain Green, a skipper who is as lively, energetic, and entertaining as any skipper I ever travelled with, I visited a number of the neighbouring islands where we climbed trees to obtain enormous bean pods, gathered orchids, and visited shelling stations.
The bays and islets of Thursday Island and its neighbourhood certainly form pictures above the average of Australian scenery. Near the beach are groves of mangrove, while miles up there are rocky cliffs and patches of withered herbage. It is said that nothing of any value can be induced to grow on Thursday Island, while on the volcanic islands, twenty miles or so to the northward, yams and other vegetables thrive magnificently. One great difficulty which has to be contended with is the want of water, the supply necessary for household purposes being chiefly dependent on what is caught from the roofs. As the quantity of rain which falls is but little more than that which falls in the great Sahara, the price of washing may be imagined. After three days in Thursday Island you feel that you have lived long enough to start upon your autobiography. After a week you feel that you haven’t the energy for such an undertaking, and you leave the task for posterity.
From sidewalks which are over the tops of naturally formed sand dunes, it may be inferred that there is no Department of Public Works in Thursday Island. There is a nice sandy walk in any direction you like to take. Now and then you may be stopped by a small mountain of old bottles and meat tins.