Our route lies through miserable-looking country, the principal features consisting of level teatree flats, with patches of quinine and coolabah, all of stunted growth, scattered throughout with here and there noisome-looking swamps, at some of which we observe carriers camped, whilst the sound of the bells on their horses and bullocks resound on every side, there being over 150 teams on the stretch of road 120 miles in length, between Normanton and Croydon. The dust as we proceed becomes something frightful, in fact, in all my travels I never saw anything like it, as it is inches deep everywhere on the tracks, smothers the trees and bushes by the roadside, and follows us throughout the journey like a cloud, settling on our clothes, burying itself in our hair, finding its way into our boots, and penetrating to our lungs in the most aggravating manner, and we are not sorry for a short respite obtained at one of the carriers’ camps abovementioned, as Jack, who seems to be universally well known, observes some goats being milked, and pulling up his team produces a whisky bottle, and with the addition of some fresh milk begged from the carrier’s wife, concocts a very welcome refresher. We pass enormous flocks of crows, who seem to hang to the roads in a very suggestive manner; pass some very lengthy bullock teams containing from 18 to 24 bullocks, all in very fair condition and in some instances really fat, and following the course of the Carron River, arrive at the Twenty-mile, our first stage out, where we change horses, have a cup of tea, and shortly afterwards are again speeding on our way, the road improving as we proceed, although the dust is as bad as ever, whilst there is also a slight change for the better in the appearance of the country. We soon rattle over this stage, it being only 15 miles in length, at the end of which we are told dinner awaits us, but on this occasion are doomed to disappointment, as the driver has forgotten to bring along any beef, consequently we have to be satisfied with a liquor up and a smoke, and a bite of chocolate cake which one of our party has taken the precaution to bring with him from “La belle France.” However, the hostess makes a cup of tea, which proves very refreshing and helps to clear the dust out of our throats. This place is well named The Rocky, there being some beautifully clear holes of water in the creek surrounded by rocks, and it is evidently a favorite camping ground for travellers, many of whom have turned out in the vicinity. We indulge in a little revolver practice here. One of our party hangs his overcoat on a bush and wagers that another of the party cannot hit it at 15 paces, but the coat suffers, and as the horses have not yet been put to we start for a walk along the road, partly to escape the dust and partly to stretch our muscles, and succeed in throwing four miles behind us before we are overtaken by the coach, which for this stage has a good although rather mixed team harnessed to it, there being two grand horses for leaders, whilst the wheelers are a couple of likely looking mules, who slip along with us at a very fair rate of speed.
We pull up for a few minutes at Munro’s, have a refresher and away, shortly afterwards meeting a carrier, who, with the proverbial Queensland hospitality, invites us one and all to “have a booze,” at the same time producing a bottle of the real “Mackay,” but as we have no water with which to dilute it, we have to pass, and shortly afterwards pull up at our stopping-place for the night—a fairly comfortable hotel kept by Mrs. Paterson—where we obtain a plentiful supply of water to enable us to get rid of the dust—a good supper of wild duck being in the meantime prepared, to which you may rest assured we paid strict attention when placed upon the table.
The Croydon coach meets us here, and after solving the problem of stowing away fifteen passengers in six rooms, we are very soon safe in the arms of “Murphy,” and sleep the sleep of the just until daybreak next morning, when the cry of “All aboard!” rouses us to prepare for another day’s journey. After a hearty breakfast we make an early start, with a change of drivers, Jack taking the back track to Normanton, our whip turning out to be a genuine specimen of a “Frenchman” from the Emerald Isle, named “Barney,” who is a real gem in his way, and enlivens the journey by many quaint remarks, and more especially by the way in which he renders the chorus of two or three popular songs, his performance of “Jack’s come home to-day” being simply indescribable.
As the track on this stage has again become very heavy we have a five-head team, four horses and a mule, the latter getting fits from Barney, and being continually sneered at as “Irish,” for “shure, yez know, the divil a bit o’ good is he, the spalpeen,” but we manage to get along very well, and at about 10 o’clock arrive at Mother Foot’s Lagoon, a grand sheet of water 18ft. in depth in the deepest part, and which has never been known to fail in the driest seasons.
There is a nice, clean-looking hotel here kept by Mr. Griffin, formerly well known about St. George, and some distance away on the bank of the lagoon the irrepressible Chinaman has settled down and formed a very fair garden, with the produce of which he supplies carriers and travellers, as well as the hotel.
Between the hotel and the Chinaman’s garden I come across a spot where repose the last remains of poor old Frank Stubley, at one time one of the richest miners in Charters Towers, and a man well known and esteemed throughout the whole of Northern Queensland for his liberality and generosity. He lies at the foot of a box tree, a short distance from the water’s edge, and on the tree is carved the following inscription:—
S A C R E D
TO
F. STUBLEY’S
MEMORY.
“J. Gill, 7th May, 1887.”
Poor fellow! He died at last in poverty, but I with many others can safely say that he was no one’s enemy but his own.
We have a bit of trouble at this stage as the groom is as drunk as an owl. There are no horses in for a change and the team we have been driving is pretty well tired, but we fix the nosebags on them in case we have to go further, and in the meantime scour the country in the immediate vicinity to try and discover the missing mokes; but all efforts are fruitless, and after a spell of a couple of hours we again yoke up and proceed upon our way—leaving the drunken groom riding around in a vain endeavour to discover the objects of his search. We managed to nail one fresh nag, which did not belong to the firm and had never been in harness before, so were treated to a bit of life at starting, as he bucked and kicked, mixing himself up in the traces and going nearly mad; but he eventually kicked himself clear and away we went, Barney being quite equal to the occasion.