That Kick in The Guts

It made no sound at all really and the first that anyone realised that anything had happened was the thud of his body hitting the ground and the dust raising. The morning has started spectacularly with the dust on the horizon only briefly preceding the thundering of the hooves, which in turn preceded the barking of the kelpies, and then the drovers shouting to one another, accents from the British Isles predominated as they herded the brumbies into the spit rail enclosure. The Spring Brumby running has started exceptionally well and old Jim Miller was sure that he would make a killing, but now he was crumpled on the ground, a trickle of blood coming from his mouth.

Once the drovers realized something was wrong, there was a scramble to get him away from the fracow as Brumbies wrenched from the freedom of the bush were not likely to make any allowances for prostrate humans as they stamped and snorted their objection to their confinement. Jim had sustained the worst nightmare of the bushman a kick to the ‘stomach’. Today we know how delicate this area is and the vitality of the organs that can so easily rupture in that area, but then in 1910, all they knew was that he was sick – perhaps doomed and something had to be done to ‘sort him out’.

Sensibilities in the bush had to be push aside for practicalities. Good weather had to be taken advantage of for poverty loomed for those not prepared to take every advantage to maximize the chances of making a living and for this gaggle of drovers they had to head out into the bush again. So what was to happen to old Jim?

Three days earlier Greg Marlow had started holidays. He had taken the steam train from Melbourne having left from Flinders Street station and disembarked at Bairnsdale in Gippsland and then there had been an uncomfortable 2 day carriage ride to the little hamlet of Dargo in the Victorian Alps, there he was collected by his uncle Miller in his dray and pony. They had edged their way to Miller’s hut at the summit of Mt Wellington one of many mountains in the Great Dividing Range. Jim’s nephew had not seen him since he was a boy. He had a romantic notion of his uncle’s life, lived among the mountain men and the brumby runners. That was to change momentarily.

A call went up from the Drovers as they dragged Jim under a tree. Someone grabbed a water bag and a swag – one to hydrate and the other to warm the stricken man. Greg came out of the hut at the shout dressed in his accountant’s tweeds and rushed to his uncle. What had happened? What will happen? What should we do? All questions the Drovers could answer but gave the nephew little comfort. The most daunting of all of the information that he received was that it would be up to him to get assistance for his uncle. ‘Where from’ he wanted to know and the Drover he was looking at laconically nodded towards the decline from the mountain and said ‘down there. We’ll saddle ye up a hos’.’

Greg had never ridden a horse before. He had been born in Melbourne, the eldest son of Jim’s sister and her husband. He had been educated privately and had been working as an accountant for the last 5 years. His hands were lily white and were the source of some amusement for the Drovers who had no pity for the spoiled city boy.

Bert the Scottish head Drover was kind enough to saddle the most gentle of the horses, but for the uninitiated he was still frisky and huge. The others were kind enough to give him a ‘leg up’, but they could barely contain their mirth as they watched him struggle to get into the saddle, get his feet in the stirrups and all the while trying to be brave, but quaking with fear. Bert took pity on him and walked him around on the horse, while he instructed the other drovers to get Jim inside the hut the youngest drover Tom Bailey was told to sit with him. After about an hour Bert had to tell Greg he was on his own, he had to be getting off again, he would be fine he reassured the skeptical and apprehensive Greg, just keep the horses head – whatever that meant – and then he lent him a straw hat, as his bowler would not keep off the relentless sun, he then led him to the track and with a vague instruction to ‘look out for the farm at the bottom of the track’ smacked the horses rump and sent him off on his way.

In his first day of exploring on his uncle’s holding, Greg had stood at the entry of this faint opening in the bush. He had marveled at the vista before him. The tall gum trees apparently in a race to meet the sun, the ferns, the bracken – the apparent tangle providing cover to the fauna that the born and bred city boy could only wonder at and he would look searchingly into the bush when he would hear a rustle or a groan. In between these sounds he was amazed at the silence of the bush and the gentle bird calls that accompanied this silence - but now all he could hear was the thundering of the horse’s hooves and the heaving of the horse’s breath as he clung desperately to its back. Legs, back, shoulders, neck, jaw muscles all were tensed. He didn’t notice that he was being lashed and scratched by the relentless overhanging branches of the gum trees the straw hat torn from his head almost as soon as the horse commenced his descent. Greg just clung to the heaving animal and thought of nothing else but hanging on to the horse with everything he had. The whooping of the drovers enjoying his predicament had long since died away and he now seemed to be on a relentless descent to he knew not where. He would never have any concept of the amount of time he spent clinging to the animal descending on a barely perceptible track, enclosed in the bush and isolated, fear and anxiety and tensed muscles all stopping the time as he descended. The bush of his first day’s wonderings was very different now.

At the base of Mt Wellington far from the ‘civilized’ coach routes leading to Dargo was the farming district of Coongulla – a small cove on the bend of the McAllister River. Cattle grazed on the river flats and green pastures, tree lined fences and the gardens of the homestead provided a stark contrast to the rugged beauties at Miller’s Hut. Mick Henry had farmed here for 20 years and was used to the oddities that emerged from the bush from time to time but up there among the most memorable was the figure of the tweed clad Greg Marlow battered and bruised and clinging desperately to his horse bolting out of the bush!

Mick summoned his farm hand who mounted his horse and with great skill caught the horse that Greg was clinging to. Greg could not speak and could not untense his muscles. He was scratched, battered and sun burnt but otherwise seemed intact. His tweeds were ripped; his white shirt was bloody, torn and filthy. It took some coaxing to have Greg let go of the reins and then they were able to pries him off the horse. They sat him on the grass under a tree near the homestead and gave him swigs of water from the water bag. It took many minutes before Greg was able to rouse himself enough to tell the farmer of his uncle’s plight.

Mick Henry sent word via his farm hand to his neighbours – they needed to band together to go to their stricken friend. Once Greg had revived somewhat with the water Mick tried to help him to stand – that is when the real trouble began. Greg stood and leaned on Mick, and then he took a step - that is when he crumpled to the ground. Over the protests of Greg, Mick removed Greg’s trousers and grimaced. The young man who had never been on a horse before had ground the skin off his buttocks and thighs with the relentless force of the rough weave of the tweed grinding between Greg’s skin and the saddle. The skin was raw and the more Greg regained his sensibilities the more he felt the acute pain of his predicament. Greg’s lingering injuries caused much ribald comment among the farmers and the drovers over the coming weeks and his ride and his subsequent ‘sore arse’ moved into the stuff of local legends.

Jim Miller died the day that the brumby let lose his fury and kicked his captor in the gut. The farmers could do nothing for him but bring his body off the mountain for his family to lay it to rest. Greg Marlow attended his uncle’s funeral walking tentatively and sitting gingerly on the cushioned chair set aside for him. The farmer and the drovers did their best to hide their smiles as they too prayed for the soul of Jim Miller.