"Our
luck's dead in. She's only just moving. Yesterday's rain hasn't come down
the valleys yet."
We pushed on in the moonlight; but when we reached the Fergusson, two
hours later, we found our luck was "dead out," for "she" was up and
running a banker.
Mac's hopes sank below zero. "Now we've done it," he said ruefully,
looking down at the swirling torrent, "It's a case of 'wait-a-while'
after all."
But the Maluka's hopes always died hard. "There's still the Government
yacht," he said, going to a huge iron punt that lay far above high-water
mark. Mac called it a forlorn hope, and it looked it, as it lay deeply
sunk in the muddy bank.
It was an immense affair, weighing over half a ton, and provided by a
thoughtful Government for the transit of travellers "stuck up" by the
river when in flood. An army of roughriders might have launched it, but
as bushmen generally travel in single file, it lay a silent reproach to
the wisdom of Governments.
Some jester had chalked on its sides "H.M.S. Immovable"; and after
tugging valiantly at it for nearly half an hour, the Maluka and Mac and
Jackeroo proved the truth of the bushman's irony.
There was no choice but a camp on the wrong side of the river, and after
"dratting things" in general, and the Cullen in particular, Mac bowed to
the inevitable and began to unpack the team, stacking packbags and
saddles up on the rocks off the wet grass.
By the time the billy was boiling he was trying hard to be cheerful, but
without much success. "Oh, well," he said, as we settled down round the
fire, "this is the Land of Plenty of Time, that's one comfort. Another
whole week starts next Sunday"; then relapsing altogether he added
gloomily; "We'll be spending it here, too, by the look of things."
"Unless the missus feels equal to the horse's-tail trick" the Maluka
suggested.
The missus felt equal to anything BUT the tail trick and said so; and
conversation flagged for a while as each tried to hit upon some way out
of the difficulty.
Suddenly Mac gave his thigh a prodigious slap. "I've struck it!" he
shouted, and pointing to a thick wire rope just visible in the moonlight
as it stretched across the river from flood bank to flood bank, added
hesitatingly: "We send mail-bags - and - valuables over on that when the
river's up."
It was impossible to mistake his meaning, or the Maluka's exclamation of
relief, or that neither man doubted for moment that the woman was willing
to be flung across deep, swirling river on a swaying wire; and as many a
man has appeared brave because he has lacked the courage to own to his
cowardice, so I said airily that "anything better than going back," and
found the men exchanging glances.
"No one's going back," the Maluka said quietly: and then I learned that
the Wet does not "do things by half." Once they began to move the flood
waters must have come down the valleys in tidal waves, the Maluka
explained. "The Cullen we've just left will probably be a roaring
torrent by now."
"We're stuck between two rivers: that's what's happened," Mac added
savagely. "Might have guessed that miserable little Cullen was up to her
old sneaking ways." And to explain Mac's former "dratting," the Maluka
said: "It's a way the rivers have up here. They entice travellers over
with smiles and promises, and before they can get back, call down the
flood waters and shut them in."
"I'm glad I thought of the wire," Mac added cheerfully, and slipped into
reminiscences of the Wet, drawing the Maluka also into experiences. And
as they drifted from one experience to another, forced camps for days on
stony outcrops in the midst of seas of water were touched on lightly as
hardly worth mentioning; while "eating yourself out of tucker, and getting
down to water-rats and bandicoots," compared favourably with a day or two
spent in trees or on stockyard fences. As for crossing a river on a
stout wire rope! After the first few reminiscences, and an incident or
two in connection with "doing the horse's-tail trick," that appeared an
exceedingly safe and pleasant way of overcoming the difficulty, and it
became very evident why women do not travel "during the Wet."
It was a singularly beautiful night, shimmering with warm tropical
moonlight, and hoarse with the shouting of frogs and the roar of the
river - a night that demanded attention; and, gradually losing interest in
hair-breadth escapes from drowning, Mac joined in the song of the frogs.
"Quar-r-rt pot! Quar-r-rt pot!" he sang in hoarse, strident minims,
mimicking to perfection the shouts of the leaders, leaning with them on
the "quar-r-rt" in harsh gutturals, and spitting out the "pot" in short,
deep staccatos. Quicker and quicker the song ran, as the full chorus of
frogs joined in. From minims to crotchets, and from crotchets to quavers
it flowed, and Mac, running with it, gurgled with a new refrain at the
quavers. "More-water, more-water, hot-water, hot-water," he sang rapidly
in tireless reiteration, until he seemed the leader and the frogs the
followers, singing the words he put into their mouths. Lower and lower
the chorus sank, but just before it died away, an old bull-frog started
every one afresh with a slow, booming "quar-r-rt pot!" and Mac stopped
for breath. "Now you know the song of the frogs," he laughed. "We'll
teach you all the songs of the Never-Never in time; listen!" and
listening, it was hard to believe that this was our one-time telegraphing
bush-whacker.
