English passengers (56 page)

I am not normally prone to doubts, and yet all of a sudden I could feel these creeping forth, like poison dripping into my lifeblood, rendering dearest certainties suddenly frail. Had I been been mistaken from the first? Had all these long years of study and journeying, of writing and persuading, been nothing more than wasted time: a mere delusion? Sensing what now approached, I tried to close my thoughts, to make them into blank nothingness, that I might protect my belief, but my mind simply would not be stilled, and already I could feel my faith grown somehow brittle, no longer the rock which I so needed. All at once I felt myself haunted by a terrible vision, of a world without guidance: a land of emptiness, where all was ruled by the madness of chance. How could one endure such a place, where all significance was lost? I myself would mean nothing, but would merely be a kind of self-invention: a speck upon the wind, calling itself Wilson. I felt my spirit waver, as if it were toppling into the abyss before me.

That I left that dreadful spot was not, sad to say, from purpose, but simply in answer to the elements. Wet and shivering, I knew I could not remain on this windy ridge. Dusk was approaching. I began to go down, following the leftward side of the mountain, which seemed less difficult, though even then I found myself cruelly mocked. Several times my descent was obstructed by some precipice that required me to retrace my steps and try again, and by the time I finally found myself on level ground, I had scratches and bruises in abundance. Weak and forlorn, I tried to find some spot where I might rest, before the light failed completely. The land below my feet was marshy, requiring me to walk back beneath the mountain’s shadow until I found a place that was firmer. I did try to light a fire, building a little heap of kindling wood, and expending several precious matches, but it was no use, all being so wet. There was nothing to do but to create a bed of leaves, like those I had seen the guide Cromwell make, though this felt neither warm nor comfortable. Lying thus, I consumed a tin of hotchpotch, which helped at least to revive my body, if not my spirits.

All I sought was sleep. Terrible to say, I believe I hardly cared if I should ever wake again, so black was my despair. In the event, sleep
proved hard to find. I was cold, and it was so very loud in the darkness, seeming far more so than when I had had a tent in which to shelter. One moment I would be disturbed by the buzzing of an insect close to my ear, the next a breeze would blow up, scattering drops of water upon me from unseen leaves. Worst were the sounds of faint rustling in the undergrowth, full of mystery. Though I told myself these were probably just made by a bird or vole, it was hard not to wonder if some poisonous spider, or snake, were now creeping towards me, or even one of the native wolves that had stripes like a tiger’s upon their backs and were known to attack men. All the while my thoughts dismally raced. Was there some failing of which I was guilty? Had I unwittingly committed a great sin? I could not think what this might be. Throughout all my days I had endeavoured only to lead a virtuous life and to serve my Lord. How could He reward me so?

I was still wide awake when I became aware of the faint fragrance of wood smoke, as from a campfire. It seemed a most welcome mystery, if only to distract my thoughts from their mournful course. Gathering up my mule bag, I began picking my way in its direction. Before long I could hear the faint sound of voices. For a wild moment I even wondered if some kindly strangers might be here, from some other expedition, and if I might, by His wondrous intervention, be saved after all. Then, stepping between trees, I saw a little group sat round a campfire, the flames rising nicely. It was Potter, Hooper and the mule men. Creeping nearer, I saw that they were passing the surviving bottle of brandy from one to the next. How dare they have a fire? They should not even be on this side of the mountain. Lost, were they? Or had they come here deliberately to mock me anew?

Suddenly I found that my spirits, which had fallen so low, became revived, if only by the force of my own righteous indignation. Here was the cause of all my troubles, swigging liquor and warming his feet before a fire. Dr. Thomas Potter. I would easily have found Eden by now if it had not been for him. All at once I could understand. This was why the Lord had struck us with calamity. What else could be expected of an expedition that called itself Christian, and sought the holiest of places, and all the while harboured within it a magnet of wickedness? Why, He had been seeking to give me His warning. How could I go in search of
paradise with an agent of the devil crawling and slithering at my side? That would be an abomination.

I now knew my task. I would fight him. Eden would yet be found, of that I had no doubt, but it would have to wait for the moment. The devil had appeared before me, and I would not shirk my duty. I would raise the standard of godliness, then join battle and smite him down.

Had supposed selves = finally rid of Wilson but not so. Self just growing warm from brandy when heard his dreadful twittering voice calling through darkness, sermonizing to mule drivers, ‘‘renounce this agent of the devil (self) before it = too late. Join me + return to the embrace of God,’’ etc. etc. Skeggs telling he to go away in strongest terms, Hooper throwing large stone. All at once Wilson dashing between selves, stealing two largest firebrands + fleeing away. Self considered pursuit + punishment but in truth all = too weary. Fire quite reduced, so expired during night.

E
NERGETIC EXERCISE WAS
not something I had much troubled myself with till now, and there were a good few times when I cursed the day I had allowed myself to be bullied into joining this little jaunt into the Tasmanian bush. Then a morning came when, greatly to my own surprise, I found I had somehow become accustomed to this work of walking. My legs seemed quite to dance across mud and rocks, while I felt myself feeling strangely content of spirit. There was something curiously satisfying about an existence so simple, where all that was required was careful watchfulness hour after hour—to avoid a poor footfall, or an unseen
snake—and which was rewarded at dusk with a fine sense of satisfaction at limbs stretched and miles traversed.

Another unexpected pleasure was the land itself. This was quite beautiful in a wild way, with its craggy mountains, its rushing rivers, its forests of pale trees. At dusk I would glimpse the strange creatures that lived here, the kangaroos and wallabies that jumped across the land with such unlikely grace. Even the cries of the birds, which I had at first found harsh, became pleasing to my ear. I would sometimes wake in the morning with a curious feeling, which I could not explain, that I was at home. It was only now, indeed, that I began to realize how greatly I had lacked any such sensation in England.

Then Wilson took us up his mountain.

My last recollection is of struggling, then of all the world vanishing suddenly upwards and beyond my grasp, and of my body being whipped by leaves and branches. After that the next thing I remember is finding myself staring at the sky as I lay, wet to the skin, upon the strangest of beds, being formed in part from tree foliage and in part from dead mules. Only two or three of the animals were still alive, while these were barely so, judging from their faint cries.

I began a number careful experiments of movement, each of which seemed to evince some new and unsuspected injury. By the time I finally risked sitting up I’d learned that I was bad in one leg, in one wrist, in both shoulders, in all ribs, as well as also in my neck, my back, my rear and—last but not least—my forehead, where that murderous fool had had the fine idea of tapping me with the butt of his gun. In truth I hardly knew who to thank most: Wilson for leading us up so miraculously ill-advised a path, Cromwell the guide for not telling him better, Potter for scaring the mule with his tugging, the mule drivers for allowing their animals to go sliding to disaster or Hooper for trying to play assassin and knocking me into this delightful spot.

I was, I knew, very lucky to be alive at all. I could only assume I had benefited from having my fall broken by the trees, and then landing upon the animals. Rising to my feet, I discovered that walking was possible, though it was no delight. Looking upwards at the black line that marked the cliff, I could see no sign of the other members of the party, and though I called out several times there came no answer. It seemed fellow
explorers had gone. There seemed little point in dwelling upon such disappointment, however, and so I set about trying to preserve myself My first need was to make myself a shelter before the light was gone. Fortunately there was a tent in the very first mule bag I chanced upon, and, doing my best to ignore the howling of my various injuries, I put this up, which I did, if not well, at least in a manner that would suffice. Food posed no problem as the ground was quite littered with pots, tins and sacks. Matches and paper I soon discovered, and though gathering wood was more than painful, I managed to light a fire before it became fully dark. So I sat in front of my tent, almost comfortable, eating salmon and duck breast with rice, and drinking a survived bottle of champagne, toasting my still being alive.

I endeavoured to keep the fire alight through the night, hoping that its smoke and smell would help the others to find me. Sure enough, early the next morning, I was excited to hear footsteps approaching through the trees. I assumed that this would be all the party, and so was surprised to see only one. It was the guide, Cromwell.

‘‘Thank goodness,’’ I exclaimed. ‘‘Where are all the others?’’

He did not answer, but sat down in front of me, directing me a strange, almost quizzical look. ‘‘You must tell me this one thing. Why did you fight Hooper so?’’

It seemed a strange sort of question. ‘‘I could hardly let him shoot you.’’

A frown passed across his face, almost as if he were enduring some pain, or struggling with confusion. He reached out and, just for a moment, touched my arm with his finger, murmuring, ‘‘Renshaw.’’ Then the look was gone, vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. He glanced at my bruised legs and arms. ‘‘You can walk?’’

‘‘Barely.’’

‘‘Later you can?’’

‘‘I suppose. But you’ve still not told me about the others. Are they coming?’’

He regarded me as if I had asked the most foolish of questions. ‘‘Forget them. They’re no good.’’

‘‘What d’you mean? D’you know where they are?’’

‘‘Gone away.’’

‘‘Surely they’ll come looking for me.’’

‘‘They won’t come. Forget them.’’ There was something in his look that made me wary of asking further. Rising to his feet, he began loosening the ropes that supported the tent. ‘‘This is too near mules. They will smell bad soon.’’

There seemed mystery in his every remark. ‘‘You’re not staying?’’

He shook his head. ‘‘Things to do.’’

So he began his work, quite refusing my offers of help. He moved the tent further away, close by a tiny stream, then began journeying back and forth, until he had assembled a large heap of pots and tins, and a mighty pile of firewood. Next he sat by the fire and manufactured a number of his spears, which looked light but fearsomely sharp. Taking three of these, he strode off into the trees, returning some time later with a freshly killed wallaby, which he quickly skinned, gutted and began roasting upon the fire, filling its empty belly with hot ashes. To my surprise it tasted very good, all the more so for being the first fresh food I had eaten in many days. Finally, when we had finished eating, he pointed to the remaining spears.

‘‘You keep those in case kanunnah—wolf—comes. He will smell the mules, you see.’’ He smoothed the ground in front of the tent and began scratching with a stick to draw what I realized was a kind of crude map. ‘‘When you are feeling better again you must go down here. Path is at the bottom, and you must go so with it, away from sun. Most of all you must make sure always stay this side of the mountain that looks like a skull. Don’t go any other way, though it looks easier. So you’ll get to other white men.’’ He climbed to his feet. ‘‘Now I must go.’’

‘‘Will you come back?’’

He shook his head. ‘‘Things to do. You get better, then go back to your ones.’’ Without more ado he turned and was gone.

Morning = bright + warm. Selves made new fire (to replace one Wilson stole in night) + sat in sun a while, brewing tea, till better recovered from trials of day before. Then considered present situation. All agreed that self should henceforth act as selves’ leader. Next considered how best try + escape wilderness + save selves. Confess will not be easy. Thanks to Wilson’s deranged wandering + selves’ confusion during descent from mountain = far from clear re present position. Neither desirable nor practical attempt retrace steps, as mountain = far too precipitous (Hodges + Skeggs nearly fell), so decided = best continue along this valley, following stream. Lie of land suggests best way = S(downstream) + then E when opportunity arises.

Set off without delay. Beside stream found path: v. fortunate. Direction not ideal (SSW rather than S) but will suffice for moment. Made good progress behind mountain with curious shape, like fist or skull. Later reached open ground where observed selves being followed. Wilson = 1 mile behind. Wilson. When all stopped he also stopping, when selves resumed he resuming etc. etc. Seems he = determined haunt us yet.

Another good day’s walking, though self increasingly concerned re path. Briefly turned E, i.e. towards settled areas, but then veered back WSW(quite wrong). In afternoon selves attempted cut across country but driven back by thorny vegetation which = among worst selves have met: remaining clothes badly torn, skin likewise. Also could observe way = further blocked by distant mountain range. V. discouraging. All selves agree = now too late retrace steps, as distance walked = too great + supplies = too low. Hope + believe path may yet swing back to E.