A SOLUTION.
They spent the remainder of the day in sleep, when they were at last
left alone, except by Bill, who seemed to consider himself their
companion or custodian. For Smith was thoroughly done up by the
journey and starvation. The excitement had been too much for him,
and the speculations his tired brain indulged as to the origin of an
English-speaking white race of savages, nearly drove him crazy.
Who could they be? The likeliest solution was certainly the one he
had struck on. It occurred to him once that they might be the
descendants of some lost explorer, such as poor Leichardt, who had
taken up with some tribe of black-fellows. But there were very many
in the camp obviously without a taint of black blood in them. Some
would have been as fair as himself if they had not been burnt so
intensely by their wild life, and nearly all had big blonde beards,
and moustaches which reached to their shoulders.
And so far, whether they had legends as to their origin of not, he
had not been able to get them to speak plainly. They had come from
"over there" a long time ago, Bill said when pressed; but "over
there" was not definite, and though he pointed due east, it meant
little. He tried once before he fell asleep to find out if Bill
understood anything about the sea. Yes, the word was familiar to the
man, but it obviously meant nothing more than a lagoon or water-hole
much bigger than any piece of water he had seen. And when Smith
suggested to him that the sea was like the boundless plain and
without limit, the notion became abstract, and as unintelligible as
eternity.
That this was so seemed to dispose of the notion that they were
castaways, such as the Pitcairn Islanders might have been if they had
reached their island without any implements of civilisation, and had
been left to a hand-to-hand fight with a barren land and fierce
savages. He fell asleep thinking that he had perhaps discovered a
new white race who had learnt English from the lost explorer whom he
had once believed their ancestor. But why they should give up their
native tongue was an insoluble problem, unless indeed they had
regarded the new white man as their superior, and had learnt his
language as a quasi-court language fitter for them than their own.
And from what period did they date? Obviously, he said, they must
have been savages for centuries.
When he woke it was quite dark, save for the light of the camp fire,
by which he saw the Baker sitting with several of the younger men,
some of the boys, and one or two girls. The girl whom they had
interrogated was on Mandeville's right hand, and the strange party
seemed to be enjoying itself thoroughly. For the Baker was singing
"Sweet Belle Mahone" to them, and the simple melancholy of the old
air seemed to please them greatly. They tried to join in the chorus,
and the Baker's right-hand neighbour caught the air pretty
accurately. Smith advanced to the fire, and was greeted with a "Sit
down, mate," which, if he had closed his eyes, would have seemed to
emanate from any ordinary crowd of miners. But there they were,
savage, hirsute, wild, and half-clad in untanned skins.
Smith was careful not to sit next to the Baker, for he wished to be
as friendly as possible with those who might resent with a gold club
any sign of suspicion or aloofness. He squatted amicably between two
of the men, and held out his hand to the blaze.
"How goes it, matey?" said the Baker.
"Bully," said Smith. "And you?"
"Fust-rate," said the Baker. "I'm all at 'ome, and makin' a regular
sing-song. These chaps are a good sort, a bally good sort."
"I should have been dead now but for them," said Smith, and catching
Bill's eyes shining under his matted forelock.
Bill appealed for his pipe. It was lighted and passed round; the
boys and girls each took their turn to splutter and cough over the
magical instrument. When it was returned to Smith, he was glad that
it was out, for he would have felt obliged to continue smoking
without wiping the mouth-piece. As he filled it again he managed to
do that furtively.
"Sing again, Baker," said Bill, showing his teeth. And the Baker
began the song of the old convicts:
"I'm off by the morning train
To cross the raging main."
And to the astonishment of Smith, they all burst in and joined the
Baker, knowing both the air and the words. He sat as if he was
turned into stone and could not sing, for his jaw had dropped.
But when they came to the lines,
"Doin' the grand in a distant land,
Ten thousand miles away,"
the truth came to him like a lightning flash, and he half rose, to
sit down again, gasping.
"By all that's holy and unholy, by all the gods and little fishes,"
said Smith, "I've hit it this time."
The Baker, too, though he did not understand, was so taken aback that
he stopped in the middle of the verse, and let the wild crowd thunder
through it by themselves.
"'Ello!" he cried, "and 'ow the blazes did _you_ learn that 'ere
song?"
"Our fathers sang it," said three or four, wondering at his
astonishment.
"And 'ow the deuce did they know it?" asked the Baker.
But that was too much for them. Why did these strangers ask such
silly questions? Their journey from their far-off tribe had
obviously affected their minds.
But just then they heard a cry from across the river, which was
answered, apparently, by a sentinel on the bank, and the crowd
deserted the fire at once, leaving Smith and the Baker alone. Bill
and the other man and the boys took their spears, but without any
such haste as would suggest an enemy. And then they heard a wild
noise, which sounded strangely like a clamorous "hurrah" repeated
angrily.
The women who were in the gunyahs came out, and thronged to the edge
of the open space on which the camp stood. Presently the throng
split open, and the fifteen warriors, who had left the night before
under the command of Big Jack, came through, amidst strange guttural
cries and screams of triumph and revenge. The woman whose man had
been killed was the only one who did not join in the triumph. She
sat moody and alone outside her savage hut, in terrible and
inconsolable mourning. Her face was scored with the marks of her own
nails, and the blood dried on the wounds made her look as if she were
tattooed.
"Where is the wife of the Slayer?" said Big Jack, as he came into the
light.
"She is by her gunyah, father," cried the others.
But the Baker clutched Smith's arm.
"What have they got, Smith?" he cried in a thick whisper.
And Smith did not answer; for each one of the party was carrying two
heads. And Big Jack came to the woman, and without a word put his
terrible trophies on the ground in front of her. The next man did
the same, and turning, joined Big Jack at the fire. As each burden
was put down, a yell arose from the crowd, and when there were thirty
grinning heads in one awful pile, they shouted "hurrah" once more.
"D'ye think they ate the rest?" asked the Baker.
But Smith, who felt sick, could not answer that question. How could
he tell if these men were cannibals? If they were, what a strange
and awful reversion! what a savage satire upon the white world of a
boasted but vain civilisation!
And meanwhile Big Jack related their experiences.
"We found the Slayer's body, and his wound was made with an Emu's
spear. Yesterday we followed their tracks, and caught them by noon.
There are none left."
But some of the men were wounded, and the woman attended their hurts.
Their chief or captain was not touched. The others told stories of
his strength and skill in a strange, mixed dialect, that came to them
easiest when excitement stirred them.
Smith and the Baker, who kept rather out of the way until the fervour
of the savage welcome was overpast, now came into the crowd about the
fire; for Smith was horribly curious to know if they had brought
anything else home from their hunting but heads. He was reassured
when he saw the women cooking fish and a big kangaroo.
"Yet that says nothing," Smith told himself. "They have been away
twenty-four hours and more. They may be cannibals when they are
pressed. May Fate send them plenty while we are here, if indeed we
ever get out."
So, when the feeding was done, he came in again, and sat down by Big
Jack.
"Good-day to you," said he civilly, and Big Jack nodded a grim salute.
"You did well to-day," said Smith.
"We killed them all," mumbled Jack with gusto: "men, and women, and
the children. It is a bad day for the Emus. But the heads we
brought were all men's heads."
"May I talk with you?" said Smith; "or are you weary?"
"I am never weary," said the giant. "And I want to talk with you.
Who are you? and where do you come from?"
Smith told him.
"Then there are many white men in this land?" asked Big Jack.
"Very many."
"Then why do they not kill all the black-fellows?" asked Jack.
Smith explained to him that the white men had done so as far as they
could, until the law stopped them.
"The law!" said Big Jack. "My father's father used to speak of the
law. But I never understood it. Tell me what it is."
And Smith toiled hard to explain that enigma. But he had to come to
concrete examples.
"The law is a custom which says one man must not kill another except
in war. And if he does he is killed, too."
"Who kills him?" asked Big Jack.
"The people who have the power," said Smith, who was rapidly becoming
confused.
"Then it is not wrong to kill if you can?" asked Jack.
"Yes it is, unless you are in the right," said poor Smith.
"What is right?" asked Jack.
And then Smith was quite done.
"It seems foolish talk," said Big Jack. "Let us speak of other
things. Why did you come here?"
"To look for gold," said Smith.
"Do you want to make clubs with it?" asked Jack.
And when Smith had finished explaining currency, Jack wanted to ask
no more.
"The tribe you belong to must all be fools," he said. "Gold is
useful to make clubs with and things to boil food in, but who would
give me a fish for a little bit of it when he can go out yonder and
get all he wants. It is foolish talk. My father's father used to
speak of such things, but he was an old man, and very silly."
"Who was your father's father?" asked Smith eagerly.
And the Baker, too, came closer. He had been listening to the talk
with his mouth open, for the mystery weighed on him heavily.
"He was an old man, and silly," said Jack, "but he was a good fighter
when he was young. And my father says he had killed white men
belonging to a tribe over yonder."
He too pointed to the east.
"Where, at Sidney?" asked Smith.
"I do not know," said Jack, who was wearied of the aimless talk.
"You can ask my father, who is now an old man, and no good except to
talk and eat. And very soon he will die, which will be a good thing,
for now he cannot even catch fish."
And Big Jack dismissed Smith with a wave of his huge paw.
As they went to their tree, they saw the widowed woman sitting close
to the pile of heads, and talking to them. The Baker shrank away,
and got the other side of Smith. They lay down close together.
"Do you know who these people are?" asked Smith.
"Ain't got a notion," said the Baker.
"They are the descendants of convicts escaped a hundred years ago,"
said Smith.
And the Baker fairly gasped.