Jottings in an oarsman’s journal.

Jottings in an Oarsman’s Journal #2.

John Esau.

I confess to a certain delight in giving myself some luxuries of comfort in this venture down The Marne River. I have equipped myself with many of the little extras that make the experience of “sleeping rough” a kind of soft comfort. The fact that I can carry so much more than a walker with a knapsack venturing into the bush, lets me include such items as extra socks and warm under garments..a change of boots to shoes…cutlery and cooking utensils that would otherwise be considered too weighty for one person walking. I could store the more perishable food items in a cooling box under the prow of the skiff..this cool-box was sold by our company to keep those special dishes cool and preserved for several days with a double lined box with cork between the lining and a tight fitted lid also so insulated..it worked quite well for my purposes.So I was in the here and now quite content with my current state of living.

It was in this state of relaxed mood, with some of Cesarino’s salami cut into rounds, accompanied with cheese and bread on a plate next to me as I lounged upon a comfortable swag, the billy boiling on a small fire, awaiting for a measure of tea leaves to be dropped into its welcoming depths..and I was contemplating the possible quality of a as yet unopened bottle of a bold red wine from The Barossa Valley winery when I saw a rider approaching away a bit from the scrub..A pity, I was thinking, as I was just that moment in a state of reflection on the peaceful beauty of both the current location where I was camped and the hours just passed when I was floating on waters of ecstasy like one of those ancient Greek warriors poleing their way on a raft into a history book of adventure and resounding victory.

However, as it turned out, my visitor, a Mr John Esau of Bunyeroo Station on The Murray River near Swan Reach, turned out to be very good company and drew a balance between my wandering thoughts and the soft realities of life on the mossy banks of this flooded stream.

After seeking my permission to share my fire and camp for the night, we got down to some serious yarning..I told him of my reason for being here, which I admit he showed more than a passing interest in..himself having come to the river from the city with his parents as a young child, more than half a lifetime ago. I could also see from his instantly falling into a natural, relaxed state after seeing to his mount and settling his swag for the night, that here was a “seasoned” countryman. His reason to be in the region was in scouting the volume and continuity of suitable pasture along the stock routes from his farm on the banks of the Murray River to the Eden valley just over the hills there…because, as he explained, that while there was adequate feed on the flats and near the river at the moment, come high summer, it would all be gone and the plains turned very quickly into a dusty sveldt..and every year since he was a lad, the sheep flock of over a thousand sheep were driven along the river and then turned inland to follow the watering places and up over the range to the Summer pastures in The Eden Valley…and he was at the moment making sure there was both suitable places to water and feed the stock in its journey…I wished him well in this venture and we then settled down to each other’s quiet company.

I offered him some of my food and fare, which upon inquiring of its composition, he tasted a slice of the salami, gave it a bit of a wince and twist of mouth and raised his hand in refusal of another..

“”Ah..no thanks..it’s a bit rich for me..I’ll settle on this corned beef and boiled potatoes the wife has prepared for me. But yes, I’d die for a mug of that tea you got cooking there…”

“Yes”, I agreed, “the Italian sausage is quite rich,, as well as tasty..I have grown to like it immensely, both for its convienence in storage and lasting quality..saves cooking something when out in the country.”

“Well, we have a couple of Italians around our station..don’t quite know where they came from…very chatty people those Ities..difficult lingo to understand..you know..but we reckon they have the knack of cooking and eating anything…or so the wife says..as for the sausage, the Germans out our way make the same…or almost..it is called mettwurst…more minced meat than your sausage..still, it must be the English in me that prefers corned beef and potatoes”…and he laughed a soft chuckle.

I was finding this man gentle comfort…I say “gentle” as some people can be intrusive upon one’s thoughts by being contrary in every way to what one is thinking, and others can be unsettlingly quiet so you have to wonder on just what they are contemplating..

“You didn’t seem surprised to see me riding up this evening” John commented.

“Not really..I was a tad disturbed, lest you be a difficult person…but I was thinking just before you came into view that the scene I was looking at could have been right out of a McCubbin painting.”

“Yes..I suppose so..or a Tom Roberts..” John responded in the most natural way as to show he was familiar with such works of art..I was getting to know and appreciate this man’s company..and I remarked on the pleasure of enjoying a good painting..John responded accordingly..

”We had a bloke come to the station who was a painter back in my father’s day…what was his name…we have one of his paintings in the dining room back home…Schumann?..Shultz?..no ..I got it..Schramm..Alexander Schramm..he was most interested in the meeting of the natives with the settlers..how they got on and so on…Interesting bloke…quite sympathetic to the natives, I believe..damn good painting there on the wall, I must say…a thing called ; “The Visitors”

Of John’s living on The Murray River, I could comment on as the company had dealings in supplying some riverboat traders with Chandlering supplies..I asked John about the riverboats..

“Ah, yes..we have quite a few stop at the station landing to take on firewood for their boilers..so I have chatted to many of them.”

“Is it a hard life, you think?” I asked…I often wondered on the privations in living on a small craft compelled to traverse continually the same ribbon of water for a living.

“I do think they must be a patient lot, as It would get on my nerves being stuck in cramped cabins trapped on that river day in day out…a bit like living in an isolated lighthouse, I should think..one’s thoughts given to forever seeking that elusive horizon…or the next bend of the river..” John reflected.

An interesting line of thought I acknowledged…and I considered this was the time to open that excellent bottle of Barossa red wine and to share it with my companion..he accepted the libation most heartily..
“And are there any standout captains you have met?” I asked…John gave this a bit of thought, then reflected.

“Not so much the captain of “The Warragul”, for he was a quiet, uncomplicated fellow..as the woman cook on the boat..who was the captain’s lover. A Eastern European woman, quite forceful..as my wife would say..brutish is more the description I would use..which suited the captain of that craft as well..Her name was Mrs..she insisted on “Mrs”…Toft..was her surname…Mrs Toft..they plied the river with tourist travellers from the lakes near Wellington to Morgan up at the bend of the river where it goes East to Victoria..”

“Was there much money in that trade?” I asked.

“Well, they did it for many years, so they must have thought so…anyway, they had a contract with us to supply timber for their boilers and to allow an overnight camp and supper for the travellers when they stopped there up and then on return down the river..presumably to give their city passengers ; “The River-life experience.”

“I suppose that would be entertaining for them.”

“Perhaps..but it came to a sudden close after one passenger disappeared on the last trip they did..a women was said to have wandered off into the bush a bit further up the river from Blanchetown, when they pulled into the bank to tie up for the night.” John paused at this point and frowned..he was silent for a time so that I asked..

“What happened, do you think?’

“Dunno…but I know the area there where she disappeared..it is very dense scrub, so I suppose it could have happened..but it is so dense I’d have to wonder just how a woman in a heavy dress..as described..could even go wandering off..I have heard of another possibility that I don’t want to really contemplate, and that is it was through an act of extreme jealousy on the part of a certain woman cook whose sense of domination on that boat was disturbed by that missing woman getting a tad too familiar with the captain…but there..such rumours are rife on the river with its cocooned community and parochial intensity.

I could see the thoughts on such a subject disturbed my visitor, so I changed the subject to the magnificent red gums that surrounded us…I referred to the like of pillars in photographs of the Egyptian temples in some pictorial magazines of the day..and this changed the mood for the better, for this was a subject near to John’s heart.

“You’ll have to pardon the ignorance of this city-slicker, John, when I ask ; how do you tell the difference between the red gums and the blue gums?”…John laughed at this request..

“Ah yes…a common question from people who come to the homestead…but generally it is a question of location..the general rule, if you are not a botanist interested in the flower buds or the shredding barks, is the location..red gums in or near the river bed, blue gums on the hillslopes around…The red gums need to be flooded every ten years or so…the blues don’t like having their feet wet..so to speak..but they both burn well in the fire..good hardwood.”

“This sheep droving you do each summer, do you have other stockmen to help you?” I wondered.

“Oh yes, there are several full-time men employed at the station for everyday work and we hire in several good stockmen when we do the drive…there’s one particularly good local man named Petney,,,an old hand from the early drives of thousands of sheep brought overland into the state from New South Wales..he’s getting a bit old now, but very experienced and still strong as a mallee bull!”

“I read that native horsemen are used as stockmen in the outback…do you use them here?”

“Not here, locally, I mean…Those outback runs use the local native of the area because of the vast distances they drive the stock..and the natives work there for grub and grog..as the saying goes…here, on the river, it is a beggars banquet for food…and the local natives are very proficient at gathering tucker so they don’t need to work for the basics…we even have some white men who for whatever reason have come to live on the river in small boats or in camps and they fish or catch ducks or whatever and just live quietly and anonymously up and down the river…they are called “Murrumbidgee Whalers”, after the tramps that roam on the Murrumbidgee River.”

  “So do you ever come into contact with the local natives?”

“Of course…they come to the station for flour and sugar…the two staples they cannot trap or forage for…though God knows how they cross the river to get to the station…it’s a wonder how they suddenly appear at the back door without anyone at the station seeing how they cross the river…but we do understand that they know of a secret ford they use to cross…and they keep it a secret, not using it until late at night when they know..and they DO know..nobody will see them..cunning buggers, those local natives..”

BY this time in the evening, the light had faded and a new moon was making its presence over the eastern sky, giving a soft glow to the evening air.

“Speaking of local tucker” I spoke in a quiet, reflective manner…”if you got here a bit earlier, we could have used that rifle of yours to shoot a rabbit for the oven…”

“Oh…the rifle is just for looks..or perhaps an emergency…I..I don’t shoot game anymore..” John replied in a tone that made me aware there was something more to the reason than he was saying just then..I let a lengthy silence clear the air of superfluous conversation, for I have learned in my time behind the counter of the company that some men…particularly those returned from the war, need a moment to gather their thoughts before speaking…or perhaps better explained as clearing the negative images that seem to dominate our thoughts most times..I used this same patient practice there with John…and I was not disappointed. He shifted his position on his swag and settled to pick up a stem of grass next to him..he chewed on this for a while then cleared his throat..

“I used to hunt game birds or water fowls when we had relatives or guests coming to stay at the station for a weekend…’John’..the wife would say..’ go and get a couple of ducks…we got uncle Stan and Mary coming up for the weekend’…and I’d get the four-ten bird gun and go hunt a couple of fat ducks for the pot………….but that stopped one day…I stopped one day…” and John paused to sip at his cup of wine..ah..wine..”in vino veritas”!..he then continued…” I was there down by Westies Landing where I knew there’d be several nice fat ducks by the reeds there where they nest…I did spot several and was creeping up nice and slow on them when these couple of sulphur-crested cockys flew from one of the river gums there screeching and squawking fit to kill and the ducks took the hint and flew away…I was so angry because now I’d have to fight through the thick scrub further down the river for some more…and these two cockys came sweeping low over me screeching and I pointed the gun in their general direction and let go a shot to just scare them away…but I hit one and it fell to the ground just away a bit…sure, I felt bad…’bugger it!’..I was thinking…anyway I was walking toward where it fell and I hear a voice call out..’poor cocky’…like that…and again..’poor cocky’…several times in fact so I swung around and called out loud..’Who’s that?’…but there was no-one there..just this voice, now a bit weaker saying ‘poor cocky…poor cocky’…and by this time I was near where that cocky fell and I could see it was the dying bird saying..’poor cocky, poor cocky’..a couple of times more then it stopped…it was dead..and I felt like I had killed a person…and it is not that I hadn’t shot any number of wild animals before without feeling any deeper guilt…but this time it was different….it was the voice, you see…the human voice talking that made me feel so terrible…there was this bird that must have been someone’s pet and it escaped back to the wild and mates with another wild bird and then I come along and shoot the poor bloody thing…I’ve never felt so bad…I almost felt like turning the gun upon myself…but I went home put the gun in the closet and never shot it again…so this rifle I carry with me is just for show or an emergency.

John went so quiet after telling me this tale that I thought I better say something too..

“Yes..I have heard sailors returned from the war say that while they shot at a distant target and sunk a ship or whatever, it had no effect on them because the target was so far away they couldn’t hear any voices…the terrible feelings came upon them if they had to rescue sailors from the sea after the sinking…again..as you say..it was the human voices that haunted them..I suppose we are more connected to each other in that way than we know…”

This admission was a signal for an end to the evening talk, so we both prepared for sleep.

I awoke the next morning from a deep, deep sleep from the previous days effort and working the craft in the slow but determined current..I awoke to see through the trees a pastel dawning with the full moon setting in the west, over the Eastern Hills slopes..pastel pinks filtering to pale blues and soft shades of light dropping like many coloured petals into my awakening eyes…John had risen before me and had the fire glowing with the billy brewing over the flames..The morning was still, no wind nor even a breeze disturbed the rich canopy of the stately gums around the camp..the only sound of any significance was the soft crackling of the twigs on the fire..a most comforting and welcoming greeting to the new day.

We passed the short time we had in each other’s company in the morning in camaraderie conversation about the days promise and after a warming cup of tea, John bid me farewell to continue on his scouting the future stock drive to the hills…I wished him all the best in his ventures as I doubted I would see him again and he swept his leg so easily over the saddle of his horse that he seemed to meld as one with the beast and with a wave of cheerio, disappeared back into the bush as quietly as he came.

Myself, having all the time in the world to do as I pleased, got the skillet out of my boat and set to cooking up a nice relaxed breakfast of some of Cesarino’s bacon rashers with a couple of eggs to accompany a brilliant morning and my accompanied cheerful mood..it was in this mood of optimism that I went back over in my thoughts about the last night’s conversation with John and his deeper sensitivity over the killing of the cockatoo, and the last words he spoke on the subject of both his experience and my relating of the tales from returned service navy men after the war was to say..” It’s the killing, I believe…you just get sick of all the killing..” I had to nod my head in agreement at his observation while in this cheering morning mood.

I settled down then to plan my next section of the river journey.

(To be continued).