The Lost People of Tumbarumba

The Lost People of Tumbarumba

By

David E. Perrott

Smashwords Edition

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The Lost People of Tumbarumba

Copyright © 2009 David E. Perrott

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

The information, views, opinions and visuals expressed in this publication are solely those of the author(s) and do not reflect those of the publisher. The publisher disclaims any liabilities or responsibilities whatsoever for any damages, libel or liabilities arising directly or indirectly from the contents of this publication.

A copy of this publication can be found in the National Library of Australia.

ISBN:  9781742841380

Published by Book Pal

www.bookpal.com.au

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Many years after leaving my birth place of Tumbarumba, I returned to show my teenage sons the area on the western side of the Snowy Mountains where I had grown up. Travelling down a bush track that I once knew as a good road, our progress was stopped by a large granite rock placed in the middle of the track. It was fitted with a brass plaque which read: ‘Dedicated to the families who lived at Hardy’s Mill, closed in 1973’.

This story seemed to grow out from under that rock.

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Preface

In the early nineteen-twenties drovers moved sheep and cattle in large mobs over vast distances. These were well known and many stories have been told and retold of these people and their exploits. However, few records were kept of the small herds of one hundred or so and of the sometimes only one or two people who were trying to make a living the only way they knew how, moving from town to town. These people never had a home, just a rickety old canvas-covered wagon which carried their total possessions and their dogs.

Life on the road was sometimes full of beauty; at sunrise the cattle still lay on the dewy grass, the steam from their nostrils rising in the cold morning air and at night by the fire, they looked up at the stars that were fairly blazing in the black satin sky as the frost settled in around them.

More often, it was just hard work trying to keep the stock together as they moved their stock from town to town and finally to a saleyard. Some of these people were young and this was the only life that they had ever known for they had travelled with their parents down the same dusty roads and bush tracks, never going to school, only learning to read and write by the campfire light.

This is the story of one of those men who had to make the hard decisions in life. A young man who was luckier than most, he was married at eighteen and had a herd of cattle which he had inherited after his father had been washed away in a swollen river.

However, he didn’t know that in Tumbarumba, his luck and his life were about to change forever. He could never have imagined that he would never leave. If any person in this story by name or nature bears any similarity to any person alive or deceased, it is by pure coincidence, except of course for the keepers of The Common, Edmond and Edith, who were in fact my grandparents.

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Chapter 1

Her long brown hair swept back off her face was held in place by a torn piece of rag.

Her hands, strong and sinewy from working and being a mother, tugged at the weeds that were trying to choke her flower garden. Her long dress to her ankles was pleated, grey and hung loosely in place. The children, now at school, would soon be returning on horseback and she hoped the rain would hold off although the low clouds threatened.

‘More stock coming’,’ her husband called from the far gate.

She raised her eyes to see the circling herd of the cattle being driven towards the locked gate which faced the road. She reached for the key tied up with a stout leather strap and the book, then walked towards her husband who was doing the same. This land was The Common and they were the keepers of The Common. Each drover with his travelling herd of cattle or sheep knew that this was the place to rest. The place where he could leave his herd while he went to town some five miles away for supplies, refreshments and a good rest. The drovers had travelled for weeks, sometimes months, to see this man who would record their stock going into The Common for a well-earned rest. It would be a few days before they would return to reclaim their stock and continue either up into the high country in the summer for the grass, or down to the flat country along the Murray River. Some would be on their way back to the Riverina to be sold. All would stop off at this place, which everyone knew as The Common.

A cold wind blew across the open land as he unlocked the double-timber gates.

He stood behind the large timber gate post as the whip cracked and dogs barked, herding the pale-faced Herefords into the paddock. In vain he tried to count the exact amount of stock that passed him by. This time he would just have to rely on the honesty of the drover for the correct count. The drover was young Bert who had been coming there for years with his father so he knew the count would be spot on.

‘How ya going’, Bert?’ Edmond called as the last beast cleared the gate.

‘Can’t complain,’ Bert, dressed in an oilskin coat replied from atop the chestnut mare. He rolled up his whip and rolled a smoke before he slid from the saddle.

‘Sorry to hear about your father,’ Edmond said as he reached out his hand to the young stockman.

‘The horse bolted into the Murrumbidgee when it was in flood. No-one knew, especially the horse, that the old bridge was washed away. We found him about five miles downstream a few days later. Just one of those things.’ Young Bert stopped and pushed his hat back. Straggling tufts of dark hair hung from under the brim. Young Bert was in his teens though with the head of a much-older man. ‘Still, he could have been killed in the war, but he always reckoned that if a man can live through that war, every day was a bonus. Still a halfpenny a head for three days?’ he rasped as he figured the price in the dirt on the ground. ‘Hundred and fifty seven head, plus me two horses.’ He beckoned to the wagon and it rattled through the gate. ‘Got meself a wife.’ Bert smiled as he pointed to the wagon. ‘Far better company than me father,’ he said with a smile as he turned towards the wagon.

Sarah’s hair was blond, pulled back and tied with a yellow faded ribbon. She gave a wave as the creaking old wagon that they called their home rolled slowly through the gate towing a spare horse behind.

Bert’s father always paid up front so everyone knew where they stood when it was time to leave. Bert's father knew that even if he was broke from drinking or gambling, he could still collect his cattle from The Common and move on. Bert could see no good reason to change that.

Sarah climbed down from the deteriorated old wagon, dusting her dress with her hat. Her small fine features and piercing blue eyes stood out against her flawless rosy cheeks. She looked far too young to be married, far too young to be out in this rugged country driving cattle. But this country, like Sarah, was still young and attractive.

‘And she can ride, muster, rope and shoot,’ Bert said, watching Edmond watching Sarah.

She came to where Edmond was standing and shook his hand. They both walked to the wagon and unhitched the horse, letting it loose. Bert hooked up the spare horse to the wagon while Edmond helped Sarah with the saddle from the chestnut mare. Both freed horses cantered across the small creek running through the block, stopped and rolled with great delight in the long grass, happy at being free. Sarah climbed into the wagon with the dogs on board and Bert drove it through the gate.

‘We’ll see ya in a couple of days.’

Edmond waved as he locked the gate.

They could feel the wind blowing off the snow on the mountains in the distance as they waved goodbye to the lady in the garden. The rolling cart moved quickly over the gravel track, this time not being slowed by the herd that normally led their way. They turned towards the town and passed three young kids on a large draught horse on their way home from school, for they too lived on The Common.

Tumbarumba was a small but busy town. Its origins were as a gold mining town and still a few prospectors mined up in the hills. But, now it was a fine sheep and cattle area with good summer grass not touched by the droughts of areas further west in the lower, flatter country of the Riverina. The large stands of timber made it ideal for small timber mills set up in the bush and the logs partly cut up would go to Wagga or Albury, the larger growing towns.

The town was in the valley with steep hills either side. The road was long and winding so the heavy carts with logs, or loaded high with supplies, could reach the top with the least amount of effort from the horses.

The late winter sun was low as Bert and Sarah started the descent into the town.

Wisps of smoke from chimney tops filled the cooling air and the smell of burning timber was sweet. The thought of a log fire and a good feed gave them both a shiver. The horse plodded along and they passed people travelling in the opposite direction, leaving town with their wagons filled with supplies. A nod of the head and a bark of a dog was all that was communicated as they passed on the narrow winding road.

Bert pulled his horse to a stop outside The Union, the hotel where as a lad he had stayed with his father. Sarah could see him shaking hands with a small man with mousy features and black, oiled-down hair. He returned and took Sarah to the back alley where they parked the wooden wagon. Sarah helped Bert unhitch the horse and put him in the stalls that were provided behind the hotel for the patrons. The dogs she tied with bits of twine to the rear wheels as Bert passed down the old carpet bag that held their few precious possessions. The sun’s long shadows faded into dusk and a misty fog rolled in as they made their way to the rear of the hotel.

The rear of the hotel was at the end of a dark alley with open timber stairs leading to the upper floor and a closed door. Bert knew his way around and went up the creaking old timber stairs to enter the building via the backdoor. Sarah followed slowly, not liking the creaking, groaning, wobbly stairs. The long, dark and narrow hallway had not yet had

the lanterns lit but Bert knew the way. Bert looked at the number on the door, then opened the door to show a large bed, and Sarah stared and gave a sigh. It had been seven weeks since they had seen a bed, not since the Star Hotel at Gundagai.

‘The bath is down the hall.’ Bert pointed with his thumb. ‘They have running’ hot water here; Dad said that they have a water tank on the roof to make it work somehow. I don’t know how, though.’

Sarah smiled and looked relieved. She didn’t care how.

The ladies bathroom with light green-painted walls was cold and damp as Sarah started to fill the cast-iron bath that was standing on four ornate short legs. In the corner, a porcelain chamber pot sat on an old timber frame. The steam from the water quickly filled the closed room as Sarah undressed. The room, still cool, made her soft smooth and curvy flesh go rough with goose bumps, and her deep coral peaks stiffened. Her first foot entered slowly into the hot steaming water, followed by the other. She sucked her breath in and held it there, as she sank slowly into the heat. She let her breath out and the water’s heat made her skin tingle inside and out. Slowly she lay back while holding her breasts tightly; when she finally relaxed a surge of water covered her to her neck. Beads of sweat ran down her face as she slowly closed her eyes.

Bert had a quick wash and was off to the bar. The smoke-filled room had a log fire blazing in one corner. The locals, slowly sipping on their beer, looked long and hard at this stranger coming in. A well-dressed man in moleskins and a chequered shirt pushed his hat back as he sipped on a scotch with the publican.

‘This is Bert Williams.’ The publican introduced him to Stanley Collins. ‘Bert’s a drover from the Riverina way and he comes through here now and again.’

The well-dressed man in a serge jacket and moleskin pants who was obviously well-to-do, shook his hand and asked what he was droving.

Stan beckoned to the barman to get Bert a beer and they pulled up a stool. Stan bought a few more drinks. Others would come along and introduce themselves to Bert, for this was a small friendly town and strangers weren’t that way for long. Stan stood up and left for the men’s room, which was a misnomer, as it was a shed far up the back of the yard and the weather certainly effected how many trips you wanted to make to it.

‘I’m Pat, Patrick Hussell.’ A young man around Bert’s age introduced himself.

Pat looked around to see if anyone was listening before he whispered. ‘Be careful of that Stan. He is a rogue and not to be trusted. When he comes back make any excuse to leave and come and join us.’ Pat walked back via the fireplace and after a short warm went back to the crowd at the end of the bar.

Bert was a strong and rugged man, but not a big drinker.

‘Where are you taken them cattle?’ Stan finally asked as he rolled another smoke.

‘Got ‘em down the back of Nangus and taken’ ‘em to a place at Walwa to sell ‘em.’ Bert found his new friend listening to him intently.

‘You want to sell ‘em?’ Stan asked jokingly but slyly as a match lit up his face under his hat. He shook the match then flicked it across the room as he turned back towards the bar. Stan raised his two fingers to the barman and a beer and a whisky arrived without Bert noticing. ‘How much would you want for the cattle? If you were going to sell them,’ Stan whispered as he handed Bert a beer. ‘I could save you the trip to Walwa,’ he said with a nod and a smile.

Bert looked past Stan’s right shoulder, across the room at Patrick who was looking back through the smoke-filled room.

‘Bert!’ Stan called, causing Bert to fix his eyes on Stanley.

‘Sorry, I was thinking. What was that you said?’

The rumbling voices in conversation at the bar were occasionally broken by raucous laughter from the group around the fireplace. Stan again asked about the cattle but his question stopped mid-sentence. The whole bar went deathly quiet and everyone looked towards the hallway door where a raving beauty in a blue dress with long blond hair to her shoulders flashed her eyes. ‘Is it all right to come in?’ Sarah asked, as women were not normally welcome in the bar with the men. Their place was in the lounge with the kids.

‘I’m afraid not. Ladies are not allowed in the bar, missus,’ the fine, mousy-featured barman with the slicked-back hair replied, running his eyes over her.

‘That’s the missus, I’ll have to go.’ Bert downed his beer.

Stan grabbed his arm and stared him in the face. ‘I’ll be here tomorrow. I’ll take them cattle off your hands.’

Bert just looked at him and said goodnight. He nodded to Patrick and his friends who were still standing staring at Sarah in all her beauty. They walked across the cold long hall to open the door into the lounge. The squeaking door revealed a log fire surrounded by tables and chairs. Not a word was spoken as the local ladies eyed the strangers up and down, and the man coming to drink in there. Bert felt out of place as no other men were in the ladies’ lounge. Men drank at the bar, ladies in the lounge.

Bert ushered Sarah to a table silently. ‘What do you want to drink?’ Bert tried to look relaxed.

The squeaking door opened again and everyone looked.

‘Rita. This is Bert and his wife.’ Patrick came into the room carrying two beers, placing one down in front of Rita who was sitting at a small table near the window.

Patrick turned to Bert. ‘Bert, you have to buy the drinks out in the hallway at that little window in the door.’

The silence was broken by Sarah. ‘I’m Sarah Williams.’ The nervous voice slipped slowly from Sarah’s lips as Bert left the room.

Rita smiled at Sarah. ‘Patrick and I are getting married next week, then we’re moving’ up to The Mill.’ She spoke as if everyone would know where The Mill was, and everyone else probably did.

With a beer and a shandy, Bert came back through the door.

‘Come on, Bert, you don’t want to stay here with the sheilas, do ya?’

Bert slowly looked at Sarah.

‘I’ll be fine. I might go to bed after this one anyway.’

Patrick pulled on Bert’s arm, almost spilling his beer. As they disappeared through the door, Rita turned to Sarah. ‘Men. How long have you been married?’ Rita took her drink and sat at Sarah’s table.

The rest of the ladies resumed talking amongst themselves as Sarah explained their lives to Rita. Rita had been born and bred in Tumbarumba and had no idea of what the world would be like outside of the town. Her father was the policeman and was very strict with his ideas of what a lady should do. ‘I’m glad that he is out in the bush chasing cattle rustlers this week. He really goes crook if he finds out that I am at a hotel. Him and Patrick don’t get on too well. Patrick’s not good enough for any daughter of mine. You know how fathers are.’ She smiled.

‘Actually I don’t. My father went off to the Boer War and never came back.’ Sarah sipped on her drink.

The door opened and the barman with the black oily hair and faded green waistcoat entered the room to put another log on the fire.

‘We’ll have another round of drinks thanks, Bill.’ Rita reached for her purse.

‘Not for me. Bert will get me one if he thinks I need one.’

Rita looked at Sarah and noticed that she had no purse. ‘Oh rubbish, you can owe me one. We won’t tell Bert. If you wait for a man to come back and buy you a drink, you’d die of thirst.’

Sarah smiled out from under her fringe.

Rita and Sarah seemed to just talk and be drawn to each other; it could be that opposites attract. Maybe it was that they were from different walks of life: Sarah was a wanderer and Rita had only ever once slept in a bed that was not her own, and that was at her grandmother’s house. Maybe it was just that Rita talked and Sarah listened.

Bill returned with another tray of drinks for all the ladies in the lounge. ‘This is from Stanley,’ Bill said as he placed the drinks before Sarah and Rita.

‘Who is Stan?’ Sarah whispered as Bill placed drinks on the other ladies’ tables.

‘He is a rich, arrogant son of a cattle man out the Burra way. Very slimy, would not trust him with a forty-foot pole. Always trying something shifty, but his daddy is so rich he always bails him out if things go wrong.’ Rita tipped the last of her drink down as the door slowly opened.

‘Hello Stan, thanks for the drinks,’ the other ladies in the lounge called to Stan as he made his way to the table.

He dismissed them with a wave of his hand and smiled at Sarah. ‘I’m Stanley Collins,’ he said, reaching out his hand to Sarah.

‘I’m Mrs Sarah Williams.’

‘Surely you can’t be married; you’re far too young and beautiful to be here alone.’

Rita felt sick but she knew