piloted temporarily by the horseboy, splashed through water and ploughed
through mud, groaning and rocking in continual protest along the winding bush
track that hugged the Maranoa. In the midst of this we engaged a cook, a long, wiry-looking Queenslander, who
had been sitting on his swag under a big leaning tree waiting for drier times. He
had trodden miles of rain-drenched bush to get there, and was contemplating
little rippling rivers in front with drowsy, half-closed eyes when the caravan arrived. On being elected, he faced the weather cheerfully enough. In the circumstances
the change was a great relief, but it was a beginning that could make the
roughest hut feel cosy by comparison. As we were short-handed, the caravan
was handed over to him straight away, and he had to splash along to the night
camp, coaxing tired horses and dodging washaways at unfamiliar crossings. Then he had to unload and pitch tents in the rain, make a fire on wet ground
with wet wood, and cook dinner for half a dozen, men. The table (bags spread on the ground) was laid in a small tent, but the fire was
in the open, with a half-sheet of galvanised iron over it to keep the rain off.
Here he had to set bread for next day, turning out before daylight to bake it,
and cook breakfast, then pack upland drive on to the next camp-twelve miles away. A man who was always moving was the drover's cook ; unpacking his utensils
and furniture, every evening, packing up and moving on again in the morning.
Nor had he the conveniences of the most primitive hut. Still he had to keep a
good table, and have it ready at the proper time; and, not infrequently, at
dusk and dawn he had to mount horse and do a short watch as well, whilst his
family squatted by the blazing logs and demolished the meal he had spread for them. This cook of ours was not "spotless in white apron and cap," but spludged about
in dripping oilskins and knee-boots, getting his own wood here and there about
the soddened ground, carrying water up slippery banks, and intermittently
kicking off the clay bricks that accumulated under him as he walked about. I see him now, half bogged at the mouth of the tent, splashed with mud and
flour and dough, bravely mixing his batch, and diving in and out through the rain to
protect his fire as the veering wind whipped round the scanty shelter. Somebody remarked. "If this weather-lasts it will make the river rise."
"Very likely," said the cook, "but it won't make the blasted bread rise." E. S. SORENSON. Notes
From the NSW Newspaper The Australian Worker 4 Aug 1921 p. 13.
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