The True Mate

I went searching for an immortal in a Bendigo park recently and sure enough, I found him. Bob Brothers was a legend among the shearers he worked alongside in the rough sheds west of the Darling River in the 1890’s – not because he was a gun shearer, but because he was a champion with his hat. 
 Famous author Henry Lawson penned a description of himafter meeting him in the Carriers Arms Hotel in Bourke 130 years ago. The men dubbed him ‘The Giraffe.’

​He was six-foot-three or thereabout. He was loosely built, bony, sandy-complexioned and grey eyed. He wore a good-humoured grin at most times, as I noticed later on; he was of a type of bushman that I always liked—the sort that seem to get more good-natured the longer they grow, yet are hard-knuckled and would accommodate a man who wanted to fight, or thrash a bully in a good-natured way. The sort that like to carry somebody’s baby round, and cut wood, carry water and do little things for overworked married bush-women. He wore a… suit two sizes too small for him, and his face, neck, great hands and bony wrists were covered with sunblotches and freckles.

Lawson spent eight months in Bourke writing feisty poetry for the radical Shearers’ Union, house painting, working in the sheds and tramping some long thirsty miles with the swag. The material he wrote into Australian literature out of that outback experience saw him dubbed the ‘Apostle of Mateship’ and in my opinion, Send Round the Hat is his best epistle on the subject. 
 
Lawson made ‘The Giraffe’ the quintessential mate.

The Giraffe was a Victorian native from Bendigo. He was well known in Bourke and to many shearers who came through the great dry scrubs from hundreds of miles round. He was stakeholder, drunkard’s banker, peacemaker where possible, referee or second to oblige the chaps when a fight was on, big brother or uncle to most of the children in town, final court of appeal when the youngsters had a dispute over a foot-race at the school picnic, referee at their fights, and he was the stranger’s friend.

Though he was rarely a drinker, Bob Brother’s hat was a regular sight on the bars of Bourke hotels. He was constantly sending it around collecting for those in need, irrespective of race or creed much to the good-natured disgust of the drinkers. A German bridge-worker’s leg was broken by posts falling off a wagon. He had been working to earn his passage home so he was desperate to get home to his fiancé after three years away. Bob’s hat, weathered black with age and worn thin by kindness, was the conduit which supplied the desperate young man with the money.

One night, in a burst of enthusiasm he sent round his hat only to discover he couldn’t remember what for! Bob’s hat was unsuccessful only once, when he attempted a collection for an injured Afghan cameleer in a bar frequented by hostile teamsters threatened by the foreign opposition! A burly bullocky lifted him bodily out of the bar to safety. Bob was later spotted carrying a can of soup down to the Muslim’s camp.

Actually, I reckon Jesus beat Lawson to it long ago with his yarn about ‘The Good Samaritan’ who stopped to help the Jewish traveller badly beaten by robbers. The kindness of both men rose above religious prejudices. Lawson left some engaging snapshots of Bob, who seems to have put the values he was taught in Sunday School to the toughest test in the shearing sheds and pubs of Bourke.

The Salvation Army lassie, who went round with the War Cry, nearly always sold the Giraffe three copies.

A new-chum parson, who wanted a subscription to build or enlarge a chapel, or something, sought the assistance of the Giraffe’s influence with his mates.

“Well,” said the Giraffe, “I ain’t a churchgoer meself. I ain’t what you might call a religious cove, but I’ll be glad to do what I can to help yer. I don’t suppose I can do much. I ain’t been to church since I was a kiddy.

​The parson was shocked, but later on he learned to appreciate the Giraffe and his mates, and to love Australia for the bushman’s sake, and it was he who told me the above anecdote.
 
The Giraffe’s true colours shone when he stepped out alone to help four prostitutes thrown out of their rental by police and shunned by the women of the town. Despite all the jibes he got, his straightforward reply finally shamed the men in the bars into providing their fares to Sydney. “Well, look here, you chaps,” he said now. “I don’t know anything about them women. I s’pose they’re bad, but I don’t suppose they’re worse than men has made them.”
 
Henry’s last glimpse of Bob Brothers was the sight of him hanging out the train window waving his famous hat. He was headed home to marry a girl in Bendigo he imagined had jilted him years before and had been too kind to follow up on. The rowdy bars of Bourke had filled his quietly ‘borrowed’ hat to overflowing with cash to fund his joyous trip South and the wedding to follow. Bob’s tearful response was, “There’s some awful kind-hearted fellers in the world!”
 
It’s easy to see why Henry finished his tale sitting in the superficial atmosphere of a down town Sydney office and imagining the kindly Giraffe appearing, hat in hand,
 
Excuse me for troubling’ yer…but there’s that   there  poor woman…’ 
 
And I wish I could immortalise him!



 

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