English passengers (57 page)

Dusk attempted hunt kangaroo but no success: animals bound away so swiftly.

Another nighttime visitation from Wilson. He telling others they
shall suffer eternal damnation, burning etc. etc. because serving ‘‘agent of the devil’’ (self). Too dark to see exactly where he = but Hooper + self threw dirt, stones etc. etc. in general direction.

River joining second, much larger. Could follow this all way to coast? But which coast? (River veering S to SW.)

Obliged further reduce food ration. All now = permanently hungry. Again attempted go directly across country but again driven back by thorny undergrowth. Better to make progress even if in wrong direction?

No sign Wilson 2 days. Dead?

Skeggs shot today wallaby, though only small one. Cooked on fire, all so impatient that ate meat when still half raw. Did not go far between 7 selves. All left feeling hungrier than before.

Wilson again plaguing selves in night, so not dead after all. Now promising have selves prosecuted for mutiny if selves reach Hobart. (If!) Hooper firing rifle in air. Most effective: heard he scampering away.

Path + river still S or SW. Never
E.
Progress slowing as selves weakened by lack sustenance. Last sugar finished this morning + obliged reduced daily food ration again though this = already v. insufficient. (Self should never have let Wilson take any: he deserted party so abandoned all entitlements.) Selves talking of food every moment, dreaming feasts each night. No sign settlements, roads etc. etc. even in furthest distance. Hard believe any men except savages ever set foot in this cursed place.

Rain during night (3rd time running): shelter of tree branches leaking + selves = (again) v. wet. All now have bad colds. Pneumonia = a fear.

Selves growing so weakened beginning doubt own judgment. Woke in night convinced could detect faintest smell of meat roasting on some distant fire. Could so clearly imagine fat spitting, skin browning etc. etc. caused self some pain. Yet knew could only = mere figment imagination.

Nobody = within miles of here but Wilson, who has no gun and = no hunter.

Alarming discovery when packed up after breakfast. Entire main supply ammunition (one large bag) = vanished. Searched everywhere, but to no avail. This = v. mysterious. Ammunition carried by Tom Wright, but he vehement could not have fallen from his bag. But if not he then how? Wilson? Seems unlikely. Yet no doubting = still near. Loss = v. grave. Selves have now only what was in pockets, i.e. 12 rifle rounds + 7 for revolver pistol. Chief hope was better luck hunting game as supplies food now = so low.

Terrible day. Early morning mule driver Ben Fiddler away to river to get water for tea. Selves waited, waited, but he not returning. Began search, calling out his name etc. etc. but no reply. Finally found empty water pan beside river + stone marked with blood nearby.

Selves = v. angry. Also mystified. He attacked by native wolf ? Seems unlikely. Hooper suggesting could be = work of half-caste Cromwell, but self knew this = impossible. Half-caste = wholly lacking in intelligence + hardiness to follow selves here, while would = far too scared by his (Hooper’s) actions on mountain. Besides, sure he = already long dead (could not survive without food). If any man = responsible, this surely = Wilson. Unlikely but not impossible. He = here (saw him in distance yesterday) + so disordered of mind could be capable any enormity.

Self decided = time selves sought him out. Found him easily enough, ¼ mile back along track, hiding in trees. Had not seen he close to + observed he = in poor state: v. fleshless, eyes distracted. His mule bag looking nearly empty. Had cross made from 2 sticks which he brandishing at selves, shouting, ‘‘Away devils,’’ etc. etc. When selves approached he scampering back to river’s edge + plunging in. This = v. rash (current = fast) but he managing reach further bank, where began uttering deranged taunts as per usual: ‘‘Come, come, across the waters, like Pharaoh’s cohorts,’’ etc. etc. Self considered following but decided against. Instead shouted out, demanding if he stole selves’ ammunition +
murdered Ben Fiddler. He seeming surprised even pleased. Claiming this = ‘‘punishment’’ upon selves + that selves ‘‘cannot escape the eyes of the Lord,’’ etc. etc. Self left doubtful he = responsible after all. Also he so thin that = hard imagine could overcome Fiddler (strongest of mule drivers). Wolf responsible after all?

Food too short for selves to linger so continued on way. Self saw 2 wallaby and tried bag they, using revolver pistol, but again they = too quick. Ammunition tally: 4 rifle rounds + 5 pistol rounds. Food tally: 2 teaspoons sugar, 3 full + ¼ tins Aberdeen hotchpotch, 1 full + ¼ tins preserved salmon, 1 full + ¼ bags rice. 12 matches. Have tried carrying burning firebrand as walk, but always becomes extinguished.

Soon after set out this morning path split. One way SW, other SE. Latter = most promising since left Wilson’s mountain! Selves began nervously following but it keeping direction. Must surely lead selves towards settled districts. Only hope = not already too late.

Most terrible day till now. Selves brewing water (no tea left) for breakfast, Jim Bates away to attend to himself. Suddenly all selves = alarmed by loud cry. Hurried through trees + saw Bates = lying upon ground moaning, long stick (realized = spear) protruding from belly. Self heard footsteps running away. Pursued + caught brief glimpse figure darting away through trees. But not Wilson. Half-caste! Could hardly believe own eyes. Got off shot with pistol but missed.

Left Tommy Wright + rifle with injured Bates + took Hooper, Hodges to hunt he down. In event, this = not easy. Followed footmarks to stream but then no signs. Attempted search further but Hodges growing v. nervous, staring at every bush in fright etc. etc. Confess even self = a little concerned: vegetation = so thick + savage he could be hiding anywhere, ready to fling spears. Decided = best return to Wright + Bates.

Most disturbing. Could only suppose half-caste = following selves all this while (must = he who stole ammunition, murdered Ben Fiddler + = cause of nighttime smell cooking meat). V. hard to credit his survival + pursuit selves = quite beyond intelligence + resourcefulness any of his
Type. He = some freakish exception? Characteristics of his white (Saxon) Type half = unusually dominant? Yet what of his savage behaviour during earlier journey? Unless he possessed of special primitive resilience vs. savage conditions of this land? Confess whole matter = v. perplexing.

Selves obliged continue on way, keeping careful watch all while. Decided half-caste = sure to make mistake. Self hoped he might = attack again, so selves could deal with he. If selves reach settled districts + he follows, selves shall have him arrested + hanged as common savage murderer. Unfortunately selves’ progress much slowed by Bates, who = unable walk without much help from other selves, moaning at every step etc. etc. Had to stop early. Made camp by small pond.

After nightfall again detected faint smell cooking meat. This = provocation that simply could not be tolerated. Self insisted selves must follow smell, find fire, deal with half-caste + eat his meat. Hodges scared (as ever), so left he with Bates. Self led way back along path, Hooper + Skeggs following. Difficult in darkness (moon = ¼) but soon saw bright light campfire. Unfortunately this not half-caste’s but Wilson’s: he in nearby trees, denouncing selves as ‘‘devils’’ etc. etc. as usual. Self v. surprised he not speared by half-caste. Continued further + could soon smell another fire + cooked meat but could see no flames. Searched for some time though troubling to nerves, as so hard to see: moonlight hardly filters through trees. Finally discovered small blaze concealed at bottom of hole dug in ground. Seemed v. devious + cowardly arrangement. No meat. No sign half-caste. Most aggravating. Worse to come. On way back spear suddenly thrown as from nowhere catching Hooper in arm (fortunately wound = slight). Selves attempted pursue, fired 2 rounds, but nothing. Returned to others. Set up system of night watches vs. further attack.

Bates dead just before dawn. Great loss. Though will at least permit small increase in daily ration (selves were seven, now = five).

G
OD IS IN
my bag of sugar. The devil tries to make me spill grains when I take my meals, but I am careful and he hardly steals any. Though there is little left now it keeps me still, so I know He is there. I have not seen the devil but I have felt him often, in my headaches, in noises in the dark, in the mud and in my constant dreams of roasting meat. Sometimes he tries to frighten me with thoughts that I am mistaken, even that He has deserted me, but I hold my cross high and do not listen. Most of all, of course, the devil is in Potter and his helpers. Once they were so fast that I lost sight of them for two whole days and, though I could see their footmarks, I feared they had escaped me. That was a dreadful time, and I was haunted by thoughts of Potter sat in some fine dining room, eating roast beef and potatoes, or fish, perhaps a mighty leg of lamb, with peas and carrots, buttered bread of course, and cake afterwards, as he murmured vilest lies, that I was dead and Eden was not here. Then I saw them once more, stumbling forth, looking worse even than me. It was soon afterwards that I learned—and from Potter himself—that He had struck at last, smiting the mule driver Fiddler from the face of the earth. I was not forgotten. In that instant all my faith became restored.

That same night there occurred something so strange that for a moment I hardly knew if I was dreaming. Suddenly, quite as from nowhere, I saw, standing beside my little fire, our guide, Cromwell, who I had thought long dead, several fearsome-looking spears in his hand. He regarded me curiously and for a moment I feared he had come to take my sugar. ‘‘What do you want?’’

He answered with a question of his own. ‘‘Why aren’t you with those others?’’

‘‘Because they are the devil’s agents. They are God’s enemies.’’ I held my mule bag that had the sugar tight to my breast, but, to my surprise, he paid it no heed, simply nodding and then turning away. All at once a thought came to me. ‘‘Are you His instrument?’’ I called out. ‘‘Was it you who smote down Ben Fiddler?’’

He let out a low laugh and I was certain I was right. Sure enough, the next day I heard their shouts, as another of the mule drivers was struck down. As ye sow, so shall ye reap. Had I not warned them they must renounce this devil or be sorely punished? If they had only listened to my words I had no doubt He would have treated them kindly. Why, if they recanted He might even spare them yet, though it was growing very late.

By tearing open their flesh with the spears of His instrument, and snuffing out their tainted lives, He sweetly whispers to me that I am right.

But now I have been frightened again. This afternoon I followed them into hills which were hard upon my weary limbs, though I persevered. Hearing a distant shout, I looked up and saw they were all gathered upon the summit of a ridge ahead and were cheering and waving their arms in excitement. Anything that caused them joy could only bode ill for men of goodness. I did my best to hurry, but it was some time before I reached the spot where they had stood.

There below me, only a few miles distant, lay the sea. How strange it was to look upon it after so many weeks of wandering. So this was the cause of their celebration. For a moment I found myself mystified. The landscape was hard to read, being all steep and sudden hills, while there seemed to be a bay half hidden behind, but I could see no house or road or other sign of men. Or could I? Studying the scene more carefully, I finally observed, half hidden behind the treetops, the cause of the devil’s agents’ cry. It was a line jutting into the water, nothing more: a tiny shape too clean and straight for any work of nature. I supposed it must be some kind of jetty. Though I could see no buildings, this did not mean they were not somewhere concealed. All at once I became gripped by foreboding. Even now, this moment, they might be talking to strangers, whispering slanders, of errors made and things not here.

I needed strength. My sugar was almost all gone, down to a tiny trail in the bottom of the bag. I ate it all, every bit, and licked the paper too, which helped my spirits revive a little. Then, praying harder than I had prayed for days, I began hobbling down the hillside.

Wondrous, wondrous, wondrous! Sea! Jetty!? Hope of salvation! All selves = stood laughing like children, shouting hurrahs etc. etc. Tom Wright joyfully suggesting selves eat all remaining food this very moment (total remaining: one full tin + 1/8th tin Aberdeen hotchpotch) in celebration. Self, though jubilant, remained more cautious, but did permit selves consume the 1/8th (½ teaspoon each).

Hurried down, quite running, even despite feet, as path entered forest, keeping pistol ready in case half-caste appeared. In event, soon slowed as distance to coast = further than appeared from above: dusk well advanced by time selves wearily reached flat land. Selves spirits revived as began observe signs of nearby seashore: ground sandy underfoot, mist drawing in through trees, faint salty smell. Best of all, selves found path! Real path: broad, clear white men’s path! Self hobbled onwards, impatient with own weary legs. Then, finally, stumbled onto beach + found jetty, just as thought, vanishing into evening fog.

Confess felt some misgivings even then. All = too still. No sounds men. No lights. Nothing but faint splashing of waves on shore + smell rotten wood. Stepping onto jetty, observed many timbers = broken. None of selves spoke. All began searching nearby, increasingly impatient. But only signs mankind = old beached rowboat (wrecked), staves of burst barrels, long coiled rope, huge pieces bone + stinking carcass. Clear this = a whaling station. Worse, appeared = abandoned whaling station. Despite all evidence selves began suddenly + loudly shouting into mist. No reply. Utter silence. Self felt something like desperation. Nothing harder to endure than high hopes suddenly dashed.