Coming Across

"Coming Across" is a collection of short stories by Australian author Henry Lawson, capturing the rugged spirit and diverse landscapes of early 20th-century Australia. Through vivid characters and authentic dialogue, Lawson explores themes of isolation, the challenges of rural life, and the bonds of friendship and community. His keen observations and lyrical prose offer readers a poignant glimpse into the struggles and resilience of ordinary Australians, making it a significant work in the country's literary canon.

• Short story

								
We were delayed for an hour or so inside Sydney Heads, taking passengers
from the Oroya, which had just arrived from England and anchored off
Watson's Bay. An Adelaide boat went alongside the ocean liner, while we
dropped anchor at a respectable distance. This puzzled some of us until
one of the passengers stopped an ancient mariner and inquired. The
sailor jerked his thumb upwards, and left. The passengers stared aloft
till some of them got the lockjaw in the back of their necks, and then
another sailor suggested that we had yards to our masts, while the
Adelaide boat had not.

It seemed a pity that the new chums for New Zealand didn't have a chance
to see Sydney after coming so far and getting so near. It struck them
that way too. They saw Melbourne, which seemed another injustice to the
old city. However, nothing matters much nowadays, and they might see
Sydney in happier times.

They looked like new chums, especially the “furst clarsters,” and there
were two or three Scotsmen among them who looked like Scots, and talked
like it too; also an Irishman. Great Britain and Ireland do not seem to
be learning anything fresh about Australia. We had a yarn with one of
these new arrivals, and got talking about the banks. It turned out that
he was a radical. He spat over the side and said:

“It's a something shame the way things is carried on! Now, look here, a
banker can rob hundreds of wimmin and children an' widders and orfuns,
and nothin' is done to him; but if a poor man only embezzles a shilling
he gets transported to the colonies for life.” The italics are ours,
but the words were his.

We explained to this new chum that transportation was done away with
long ago, as far as Australia was concerned, that no more convicts were
sent out here--only men who ought to be; and he seemed surprised. He
did not call us a liar, but he looked as if he thought that we were
prevaricating. We were glad that he didn't say so, for he was a bigger
man. New chums are generally more robust than Australians.

When we got through the Heads someone pointed to the wrong part of the
cliff and said:

“That's where the Dunbar was wrecked.”

Shortly afterwards another man pointed to another wrong part of the
cliffs and observed incidentally:

“That's where the Dunbar was wrecked.”

Pretty soon a third man came along and pointed to a third wrong part of
the cliff, and remarked casually:

“That's where the Dunbar was wrecked.”

We moved aft and met the fourth mate, who jerked his thumb over his
shoulder at the cliffs in general, and muttered condescendingly:

“That's where the Dunbar was wrecked.”

It was not long before a woman turned round and asked “Was that the
place where the Dunbar was wrecked, please?”

We said “Yes,” and she said “Lor,” and beckoned to a friend.

We went for'ard and met an old sailor, who glared at us, jerked his
thumb at the coast and growled:

“That's where the Dunbar went down.”

Then we went below; but we felt a slight relief when he said “went down”
 instead of “was wrecked.”

It is doubtful whether a passenger boat ever cleared Sydney Heads since
the wild night of that famous wreck without someone pointing to the
wrong part of the cliffs, and remarking:

“That's where the Dunbar was wrecked.”

The Dunbar fiend is inseparable from Australian coasting steamers.

We travelled second-class in the interests of journalism. You get more
points for copy in the steerage. It was a sacrifice; but we hope to
profit by it some day.

There were about fifty male passengers, including half a dozen New
Zealand shearers, two of whom came on board drunk--their remarks for the
first night mainly consisted of “gory.” “Gory” is part of the Australian
language now--a big part.

The others were chiefly tradesmen, labourers, clerks and bagmen, driven
out of Australia by the hard times there, and glad, no doubt, to get
away. There was a jeweller on board, of course, and his name was Moses
or Cohen. If it wasn't it should have been--or Isaacs. His christian
name was probably Benjamin. We called him Jacobs. He passed away most of
his time on board in swopping watch lies with the other passengers and
good-naturedly spoiling their Waterburys.

One commercial traveller shipped with a flower in his buttonhole. His
girl gave it to him on the wharf, and told him to keep it till it faded,
and then press it. She was a barmaid. She thought he was “going saloon,”
 but he came forward as soon as the wharf was out of sight. He gave the
flower to the stewardess, and told us about these things one moonlight
night during the voyage.

There was another--a well-known Sydney man--whose friends thought he was
going saloon, and turned up in good force to see him off. He spent his
last shilling “shouting,” and kept up his end of the pathetic little
farce out of consideration for the feelings of certain proud female
relatives, and not because he was “proud”--at least in that way. He
stood on a conspicuous part of the saloon deck and waved his white
handkerchief until Miller's Point came between. Then he came forward
where he belonged. But he was proud--bitterly so. He had a flower too,
but he did not give it to the stewardess. He had it pressed, we think
(for we knew him), and perhaps he wears it now over the place where his
heart used to be.

When Australia was fading from view we shed a tear, which was all we had
to shed; at least, we tried to shed a tear, and could not. It is best to
be exact when you are writing from experience.

Just as Australia was fading from view, someone looked through a glass,
and said in a sad, tired kind of voice that he could just see the place
where the Dunbar was wrecked.

Several passengers were leaning about and saying “Europe! E-u-rope!”
 in agonized tones. None of them were going to Europe, and the new chums
said nothing about it. This reminds us that some people say “Asia! Asia!
Ak-kak-Asia!” when somebody spills the pepper. There was a pepper-box
without a stopper on the table in our cabin. The fact soon attracted
attention.

A new chum came along and asked us whether the Maoris were very bad
round Sydney. He'd heard that they were. We told him that we had never
had any trouble with them to speak of, and gave him another show.

“Did you ever hear of the wreck of the Dunbar?” we asked. He said
that he never “heerd tell” of it, but he had heerd of the wreck of the
Victoria.

We gave him best.

The first evening passed off quietly, except for the vinously-excited
shearers. They had sworn eternal friendship with a convivial dude from
the saloon, and he made a fine specimen fool of himself for an hour or
so. He never showed his nose for'ard again.

Now and then a passenger would solemnly seek the steward and have a
beer. The steward drew it out of a small keg which lay on its side on a
shelf with a wooden tap sticking out of the end of it--out of the end of
the keg, we mean. The beer tasted like warm but weak vinegar, and cost
sixpence per small glass. The bagman told the steward that he could

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