The Bushman — Life in a New CountryLandor, Edward Wilson
History
The Bushman — Life in a New Country
Landor, Edward Wilson
Western Australia -- Description and travel
The next day, after inspecting the farm, we proceeded with our host
to Mandurah, crossing an estuary a quarter of a mile broad, but so
shallow that the water did not reach above our saddle-flaps. And now
(having parted from Singleton) we had to swim our horses across the
mouth of the Murray River. After a little delay, a boat was found;
with a couple of men to row it across, and removing the saddles and
other things from the horses' backs, we prepared for the passage.
His Excellency's Arab mare was destined to make the experimental
trip, and the Governor, with many injunctions and misgivings,
committed the end of the tether-rope to the hand of his servant, who
belayed it to the stern of the boat, where he seated himself, to act
as occasion should require. The boatman rowed till the tether-rope
was out at full stretch; his Excellency coaxed and entreated the mare
to enter the water, and "shoo-ed!" and "shaa-ed!" and called her a
stupid creature, whilst I cracked my whip and jumped about, and
rattled my hat, and made as much noise as people usually do on such
occasions. The mare, on her part, reared up, and flung herself back,
and plunged about, and showed so strong a determination not to go
down the broken bank, that we feared we should never get her into the
river. At last, however, we managed to back her into the water, when
she was dragged instantly out of her depth and obliged to swim. The
men pulled so fast that she could not keep up with them, and giving
up the attempt, floated quietly on her side, to the great horror of
her master, who thought he never should bestride her again, until he
was relieved by seeing her start to her feet in shallow water, and
scramble up the bank, dripping like a veritable hippopotamus.
The other horses behaved better; and when we had ourselves crossed
and remounted, we rode by the side of the river, or rather estuary, a
distance of ten miles, till we came to a picturesque little spot
called Mocha weir -- a high bank, a clump of trees, a brawling brook,
(unusual sight in this country,) and a patch of excellent grass.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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