# Old Melbourne Memories/Chapter 22

CHAPTER XXII
YAMBUK
Once upon a time, in a "kingdom by the sea," known to men as Port Fairy, "Yambuk" was a choice and precious exemplar of the old-fashioned cattle station. What a haven of peace—what a restful elysium, would it be in these degenerate days of hurry and pressure and progress, and all that—could one but fall upon it! If one could only gallop up now to that garden gate, receive the old cordial welcome, and turn his horse into the paddock, what a fontaine de jouvence would bubble up! Should one ride forth and essay the deed? It could hardly be managed. We should not be able to find our way. There would be roads and fences, with obtrusive shingled cottages, and wheat -fields, barns, and threshing machines—in short, all the hostile emblems of agricultural settlement, as it is called.
I like it not; I would the plain Lay in its tall old groves again.
Fronting the farther side of the Shaw River, down to a bank of which the garden sloped, were ​broad limestone flats, upon which rose clumps of the beautiful blackwood or hickory tree, some of Australia's noblest growth, when old and umbrageous.
The bungalow, low-roofed, verandah-protected, was thatched at the early period which I recall, the rafters the strongest of the slender ti-tree saplings in the brush which bordered the river-side. The mansion was not imposing, but what of that? The rooms were of fair size, the hospitality refined, spontaneous, and pervading every look and tone; and we, who in old days were wont to share it on our journeys to and from the metropolis of the district, would not have exchanged it for a palace.
People were not so ambitious then as of late years. Nor was the transcendent future of stock-holding visible to the mental eye, when companies and syndicates would compete for the possession of mammoth holdings, with more sheep and cattle depasturing thereon than we then believed the whole colony could carry.
No! a man with a thousand head of well-bred cattle, on a run capable of holding half as many more, so as to leave a reserve in case of bush-fires and bad seasons, was thought fairly endowed with this world's goods. If prudent, he was able to afford himself a trip to Melbourne twice a year or so, and to save money in reason. He generally kept a few brood mares, and so was enabled to rear a superior hackney for himself or friend. As it was not the custom to keep more than a stock-rider, and one other man for general purposes, he had a reasonable share of daily work cut out for himself.
​"Yambuk" was then an extremely picturesque station, combining within its limits unusual variety of soil and scenery, land and water. The larger grazing portion consisted of open undulating limestone ridges, which ran parallel with the sea-beach. The River Shaw, deepening as it debouched on the ocean, was the south-eastern boundary of the run. All the country for some miles up its course, past the village of Orford, then only known as The Crossing Place, and along the coast-line towards Portland Bay, was originally within the bounds of the "Yambuk" run.
Between the limestone ridges and the sea were sand-hills, thickly covered with the forest oak, which, growing almost to the beach, braved the stern sea blasts. Very sound and well sheltered were they, affording advantageous quarters to the herd in the long winters of the West.
When our dreamy summer-time was o'er, a truly Arcadian season, with "blue and golden days" and purple-shadowed eves, wild wrathful gales hurtled over the ocean waste, rioting southward to the Pole. Mustering in stormy weather was a special experience. Gathering amid the sea-woods, the winter's day darkening fast, a drove of heavy bullocks, perhaps, lumbering over the sands before us, amid the flying spume, their hoofs in the surf ever and anon,—it was a season study, worth riding many a mile to see. No cove or bay restrained the angry waters. A misty cloud-rack formed the horizon, to which stretched the boundless ocean-plain of the Pacific, while giant billows, rank on rank, foamed fiercely landward, to meet in wrath and impotently rage on the lonely shore below us.
​How often has that picture been recalled to me in later years amid the arid plains of Australia Deserta! The sad-toned, far-stretching shore—the angry storm-voices of the terrible deep—the little band of horsemen—the lowing, half-wild drove—the red-litten cloud prison, wherein the sun lay dying!
Pleasant exceedingly, in contrast, when the cattle were yarded and rails securely pegged, to unsaddle and walk into the house, where lights and glowing fires, with a well-appointed table, awaited us, presided over by a Chatelaine whose soft voice and ever-varied converse, mirthful or mournful, serious or satirical, practical or poetic, never failed to soothe and interest.
Stock-riding in those days, half real business, half sport, as we youngsters held it to be, was certainly not one of those games into which, as Lindsay Gordon sings—"No harm could possibly find its way."
Part of the "Yambuk" run was distinctly dangerous riding. Where the wombats dug their treacherous shafts and galleries, how many a good steed and horseman have I seen o'erthrown! These peculiar night-feeding animals, akin to the badger of the old country, burrowed much among the coast hummocks. Their open shafts, though not particularly nice to ride among at speed, with your horse's head close behind the hard-pressed steer, were trifling drawbacks compared to the horizontal "drives" into which, when mined too near the surface, your horse's feet often broke. The solid turf would disappear, and letting your horse into a concealed pitfall up to ​the shoulder, gave a shock that often told tales in a strained joint or a broken collar-bone. We fell lightly in those days, however, and, even when our nags rolled over us, scorned to complain of the trifling occurrence.
The limestone country, too, held cavities and sudden appearing fissures of alarming depth, which caused the fiery steed to tremble and the ardent rider to pale temporarily when suddenly confronted. At the south-eastern boundary of the run the forests were dense, the marshes deeper, the country generally more difficult, than on the coast-line. The ruder portion of the herd "made out" that way, and many a hard gallop they cost us at muster-time.
The run had been "taken up" for and on account of Captain Baxter, formerly of Her Majesty's 50th Regiment, about a year before my time, that is in 1843, by Mr. George Dumoulin, acting as overseer. This gentleman, a son of one of the early Imperial officials, and presumably of Huguenot descent, was a most amusing and energetic person. Inheriting the legèreté of his Gallic ancestors, his disposition led him to be toujours gai, even under the most unpromising circumstances. A capital manager, in the restricted sense then most appreciated, he spent no money, save on the barest necessaries, and did all the stock-keeping himself, with the occasional aid of a black boy. When I first set eyes on Yambuk station there were but two small thatched huts, no garden, no horse-paddock, and a very indifferent stock-yard. The rations had run out lately—there was no salt, for one thing—and as the establishment had then been living upon fresh veal for a fortnight, ​it was impressed upon me, forcibly, that no one here would look at fillets or cutlets of that "delicate meat that the soul loveth," under ordinary culinary conditions, for at least a year afterwards.
Mr. Dumoulin, though wonderfully cheery as a general rule, was subject to occasional fits of despondency. They were dark, in proportion to his generally high standard of spirits. When this lowered tone set in, he generally alluded to his want of success hitherto in life, the improbability of his attaining to a station of his own, the easiest thing in those days if you had a very little money or stock. But capital being scarce and credit wanting for the use of enterprising speculators who had nothing but pluck and experience, it was hard, mostly impossible, to procure that necessary fulcrum. Regarding those things, and mourning over past disappointments, he generally wound up by affirming that "all the world would come right, but that poor Dumoulin would be left on his—beam ends—at the last." And yet what splendid opportunities lay in the womb of Time for him, for all of us! So when Captain Baxter and his wife came from their New England home to take possession and live at Yambuk "for good," there was no necessity for Mr. Dumoulin to abide there longer, the profits of a station of that size rarely permitting the proprietor and overseer to jointly administer. When the gold came we heard of him in a position of responsibility and high pay, but whether he rose to his proper status, or malignant destiny refused promotion, we have no knowledge. He was a good specimen of the pioneers to whom Australia owes so much—brave to recklessness, patient of toil, ​hardy, and full of endurance—a good bushman and first-class stock-rider.
The captain and Mrs. Baxter drove tandem overland the whole distance from New England to Yambuk, some hundreds of miles, encamping regularly with a few favourite horses and dogs. Their journal, faithfully kept, of each day's progress and the road events was a most interesting one, and would show that even before the days of Miss Bird and Miss Gordon-Cumming there were lady travellers who dared the perils of the wilderness and its wilder denizens. A fine horsewoman, passionately fond of her dumb favourites, Mrs. Baxter was as happy in the company of her nice old roan Arab "Kaffir," the beautiful greyhound "Ada," and the collie "Rogue," as more exigeantes, though not more gently nurtured dames, would have been with all the materials of a society picnic.
One advantage of this sort of overland-route work is that when the goal is reached the humblest surroundings suffice for a home, all luxury and privilege being comprehended in the idea that you have not to move on next day.
Once arrived, the abode en permanence is the great matter for thankfulness. The building may be unfinished and inadequate, not boasting even of a chimney, yet rugs are spread as by Moslems in a caravanserai, and all thank Allah fervently in that we are permitted to stay and abide there indefinitely.
With the arrival of the master and mistress speedy alteration for the better took place. The cottage was built—an Indian bungalow in ​architecture—with wooden walls, the roof and verandahs thatched with the long tussock grass. A garden with fruit trees and flowers was planted, the fertile chocolate-coloured loam responding eagerly. Furniture arrived, including a piano and other lady adjuncts. A detached kitchen was constructed. Mr. Dumoulin's "improvements" were abandoned to the stock-rider, and the new era of "Yambuk" was inaugurated. Far pleasanter in every way, to my mind, than any which have succeeded it. The locale certainly had many advantages. It was only twelve miles from that fascinatingly pleasant little country town of Port Fairy—we didn't call it Belfast then, and didn't want to. The road was good, and admitted of riding in and out the same day. As it was a seaport town, stores were cheap, and everything needful could be procured from Sydney or Melbourne. There was then not an acre of land sold, west of the Shaw, before you reached Portland, and very little to the east, except immediately around the town. One cannot imagine a more perfect country residence, having regard to the period, and the necessities of the early squatting community. The climate was delightful. Modified Tasmanian weather prevailed, nearly as cold in winter, quite sufficiently bracing, but without frost, the proximity to the coast so providing. English fruits grew and bore splendidly. Finer apples and pears, gooseberries and cherries, no rejoicing schoolboy ever revelled in. The summers were surpassingly lovely, cooled with the breezes that swept over the long rollers of the Pacific, and lulled the sleeper to rest with the measured roll of the surge upon the broad beaches which stretched ​from the Moyne to Portland Bay. Talking of beaches, what a glorious sensation is that of riding over one at midnight!
Ah I well do I remember That loved and lonely hour
when a party of us started one moonlight night to ride from Port Fairy to Portland (fifty miles) for the purpose of boarding an emigrant vessel, from which we hoped to be able to hire men-servants and maidservants, then, as now, exceeding scarce. My grand little horse "Hope" had carried me from home, thirty miles, that day, but, fed and rested, he was not particular about a few miles farther. We dined merrily, and at something before ten o'clock set forth. Lloyd Rutledge, who was my companion, rode his well-known black hackney and plater, "Molonglo Jack." As we started at a canter along the Portland road—the low moon nearly full, and just rising, the sky cloudless—it was an Arabian Night, one for romance and adventure. The other horses had been in their stalls all day, but as I touched my lower bridle rein my gallant little steed—one of the most awful pullers that ever funked a Christian—rose on his hind legs and made as though about to jump on to the adjoining houses. This was only a trick I had taught him; at a sign he would rear and plunge "like all possessed," but it showed that he was keen for business, and I did not fear trying conclusions with the best horse there. Like Mr. Sawyer's Jack-a-dandy, he would have won the Derby if it had not been more than half a mile. He did win the Port Fairy Steeplechase next year, over stiff timber, ​with Johnny Gorrie on his back, and in good company too.
Away we went. The sands were some miles past Yambuk. When we rode down upon them, what wonders lay before us! The tide was out. For leagues upon leagues stretched the ocean shore—a milk-white beach, wide as a parade-ground, level as a tennis-court, and so hard under foot that our horses' hoofs rang sharp and clear. Excited by the night, the moon, the novelty, they tore at their bits and raced one another in a succession of heats, which it took all our skill, aided by effective double bridles of the Weymouth pattern, to moderate. As for our companions, they were left miles behind.
We were at the turn, just abreast of "Lady Julia Percy Island," which lay on the slumbering ocean's breast like some cloud fallen from the sky, or an enchanted isle, where the fairy princess might be imprisoned until the Viking's galley arrived, or the prince was conveniently cast away on the adjacent rocks.
Far as eye could see shone the illimitable ocean, "still as a slave before his lord," star-brightened here and there. Southward a lengthening silver pathway rippled in the moon-gleam, shimmering and glowing far away towards the soft cloudland of the horizon. Tiny capes ran in from the forest border, and barred the line of vision from time to time. Sweeping around these, our excited horses speeding as they had become winged, we entered upon a fresh bay, another milk-white beach, fitted for fairy revels. While over all the broad and yellow moon shed a flood of radiance in which each twig and leaf of the ​forest fringe was visible. So still was the night that even "the small ripple spilt upon the beach" fell distinctly upon the ear.
As the pale dawn cloud rose in the east, the slumbering ocean began to stir and moan. A land breeze came sighing forth from the dense forest like a reproachful dryad as we charged the steep side of Lookout Hill, and saw the roofs of Portland town before us. It was a longish stage—fifty miles—but our horses still pressed gaily forward as if the distance had been passed in a dream. We had no time to sentimentalise. Labour was scarce. We stabled our good steeds, and transferred ourselves to a waterman's boat. When the employers of Portland came on board in leisurely fashion some hours later, the flower of the farm labourers were under written agreement to proceed to Port Fairy. It rather opened the eyes of the Portlanders, whom, in the sauciness of youth, we of the rival township who called William Rutledge our mercantile chief were wont to hold cheap. They needed servants for farm and station, as did we, but there was no help for it; they had to content themselves with what were left.
Personally, I had done well. The brothers Michael and Patrick Horan—two fine upstanding Carlow men as one would wish to see—were indentured safely to me for a year. They served me well in the after-time. Their brother-in-law, with his wife, as a "married couple," and a smart "colleen" about sixteen, a younger sister, came with them. It was a "large order," but all our hands had cleared for Ballarat and Forest Creek; we had hardly a soul in the place but the overseer and myself. These ​immigrants were exactly of the class we wanted. I know a place where a few such shiploads would be of great and signal utility now. They were willing, well-behaved, and teachable. I broke in Pat Horan to the stock-riding business, and within a twelvemonth he could ride a buck-jumper, rope, brand, and draft with any old hand in the district. He repeatedly took cattle to market in sole charge, and was always efficient and trustworthy. Mick showed a gift for ploughing and bullock-driving, and generally preferred farming. They both remained with me for years—Pat, indeed, till the station was sold. They are thriving farmers, I believe, within a few miles of Squattlesea Mere, at this present day. I waited until nightfall, making arrangements to receive our engagés when they should arrive in Port Fairy, and then mounted "Hope," in order to ride the thirty miles which lay between me and home. The old horse was as fresh as paint, and landed me there well on the hither side of midnight. One feels inclined to say there are no such horses nowadays, but there is a trifling difference in the rider's "form," I fancy, which accounts for much of this apparent equine degeneracy. Anyhow, Hope was a "plum," and so was his mother before him. Didn't she give me a fall over a fence at Yambuk one day, laming me for a week and otherwise knocking me about—the only time I ever knew her make a mistake? But wasn't a lady looking on, and wouldn't I have broken my neck cheerfully, or any other important vertebra, for the sake of being pitied and petted after the event?
When the gold discovery, and the consequent ​rise in prices, took place, Captain Baxter was tempted to sell Yambuk with a good herd of cattle, and so departed for the metropolis. Our society began to break up—its foundations to loosen. People got so rich that they voted station life a bore, and promoted their stock-riders to be overseers in charge. Many of these were worthy people. But the charm of bush life had departed when the proprietor no longer greeted you on dismounting, when there was no question of books or music or cheery talk with which to while away the evening. And thinking over those pleasant homes in the dear old forest days, where one was always sure of sympathy and society, I know one wayworn pilgrim who will ever in fancy recur to the bon vieux temps whereof a goodly proportion—sometimes for one reason, sometimes for another—was passed at Yambuk.