The Bull-roarer
In half an hour the camp was asleep again. Men like Mick, who live in
the desert and who are constantly facing death in many forms, dismiss
an adventure from their minds as soon as it has happened. The black
stockmen were pretty much like animals, scared out of their wits one
minute and forgetting all about it the next. Sax and Vaughan were sure
that the drover would keep his word, and were so utterly tired out when
they lay down again on their swags, that, in spite of what had just
happened, they fell asleep at once. In fact, Sax did not bother to
wipe the blood off his leg where the whip had cut it.
All the men were soon asleep except one. Eagle, the bound and tortured
warragul, was wide awake. For the first time in his life he was
helpless. Those supple limbs of his had never been bound before, and
he tugged and tugged to be free till he cut his skin against the hard,
unyielding bull-hide ropes. It was no good. Mick was too old a
cattle-man to leave a rope so that it could be loosened by pulling.
The black tried to twist his body till he could touch the green-hide
with his teeth and gnaw it through, but he was bound too tightly to
allow him to do this. Finally a he lay still with the fear of a
captured animal in his heart, and bitter hatred against the man who had
brought him to this condition.
Suddenly he heard a dry stick crackle. He was lying with his face
uphill, away from the fire, but at the sound he turned over and looked
toward the few smouldering embers of the camp-fire. Instantly hope
blazed up in his heart. He was saved! In his previous struggles he
had been reckless, not caring how much noise he made, but with the
return of hope came cunning and stealth. For a few minutes after
hearing that welcome crackle of fire, he lay still and gazed at the
thin smoke which coiled lazily up in one or two spirals from a glowing
wood-coal here and there. Then he began to move forward. His limbs
were bound so tightly that they had no power of separate movement, but
he succeeded in twisting his body in such a way that, very slowly and
with an expenditure of great energy, he managed to get nearer and
nearer the fire. It took the bound man two hours to cover a distance
of three yards. Once the mind of a savage is made up to do a thing,
time is of no object at all. An eye-blink, the hours between sunrise
and sunset, a moon, or a season, it doesn't matter. He will persist in
his intention though he die with the thing unfinished. It is
civilization which breeds impatience.
At last Eagle was up against the fire. His hands were bound behind
him. For a minute or two he looked intently at the grey ashes in which
a few little red-hot embers were glowing, till he decided on one which
was larger and hotter than any of the others. Then he deliberately
rolled over till his bound wrists were right in the ashes. There is no
pain worse than burning. A man will draw his hand away from fire at
all costs. Several parts of the man's body were actually in the fire,
but he endured it all and steeled himself to fight back the greater
agony which throbbed at his wrists. The fire touched the green-hide
and singed the white bull hair, giving off a pungent smell. Eagle
sniffed it greedily. It helped him to bear the terrible pain, for it
was a proof that the fire was doing its work.
It is impossible to tell how long that wild man endured such fearful
torture for freedom's sake. Agony is not measured by the clock. His
eyelids were shut tight, his teeth were clenched, his breath came in
deep gasps, and every nerve and sinew in his body seemed to be
quivering. He would rather die than call out, yet the effort to keep
back the yells of pain was almost worse than death. In spite of what
it must have cost him, he kept up a constant strain with his arms. The
smell of burning became stronger, but who could say whether it was the
burning of the skin of a bull or of the skin of a man?
At last he realized, through the torture which was clouding his mind,
that the strain was relaxing. He put forth a mighty effort. His body
could stand it no longer, and gathered all its forces for one last bid
for freedom. A green-hide strand parted. Another loosened itself. A
third uncoiled from his burnt wrist.
His hands were free!
Cunning is as natural to a savage as breathing. With the freeing of
his hands it would have been natural for the man to jerk himself out of
the fire, struggle out of his bonds, and make a dash for liberty. But
no. Eagle had a superstitious fear of white men. He must do nothing
to arouse the suspicions of his enemy. Almost as slowly as he had
approached the fire, he now wormed his way from it till he was out of
reach of its heat, and then lay still, his body racked with the pain of
being burnt and bound. Gradually he reached down with his burned hands
and loosened the rope which fettered his legs. It took some time, for
he had almost lost the use of his hands, and the rope was very stiff
and tightly drawn. But patience and perseverance triumphed, and at
last the man was free.
His next moves were the most risky of all. Eagle was convinced that
Mick was possessed of supernatural powers, for how else could he have
seen the black-fellow and fired at him when he was fast asleep?
Consequently it was with a caution which was the outcome of deadly fear
that he began to crawl. He dared not take too long, for the short
summer night was nearly over, and the white stockman would certainly
awake at the rising of the morning star. But Mick was soundly asleep
this time, and did not notice the black form which went slowly round
the fire and then started up the hill near the white boys.
When Eagle came opposite to Sax he stopped. This boy was not a devil
like the other white man. He had saved him from the torture of the
whip. He was the son of Boss Stobart and was therefore to be guarded
from all danger. A black remembers cruelty and will avenge it; he also
remembers kindness and will pay it back if he possibly can. But what
could a naked savage, fleeing for his life, do to show his gratitude to
the son of Boss Stobart?
Eagle put his poor mutilated hand up to his mass of tangled hair and
pulled out a piece of wood with a string attached to it. The object
was about five inches long, thin and flat, and tapered to a point at
each end, something like a thick cigar except that it was not round.
Both sides were marked with straight lines cut across the breadth of
the wood and with circles inside one another, all filled in with a
mixture of grease and red ochre. At one end was a hole through which
passed a string made of native women's hair. The thing was a
luringa--a bull-roarer--a sacred charm, the most precious object which
Eagle could possibly give to his white friend. With this luringa the
white boy could travel unharmed amongst the most savage tribes of the
desert, and could even enter the wildest of the Musgrave fastnesses and
return, a thing which no white man had ever yet done.
Eagle looked long at the piece of wood and muttered certain words over
it, and then unfastened the hair string and put it round the neck of
the sleeping boy. He had no fear of any evil power which Sax might
possess, and when the lad stirred uneasily, the black-fellow went on
with his work till he had tied the string quite securely.
A flap of Sax's camp-sheet was spread out on the sand, and when Eagle
had finished with the luringa, he spread out his mutilated hand on the
piece of white canvas and made an imprint. His hand was all covered
with blood and ashes, and the mark of the two fingers and the
projecting thumb was left very plainly on the camp-sheet.
When Eagle was quite satisfied that Sax would know who had hung that
strange symbol round his neck, he crawled on up the hill, disappeared
on the other side, and fled for his life.